


Cracked Faith

by skybound2



Series: Broken & Cracked [2]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 19:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybound2/pseuds/skybound2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all wounds are easily healed, and some will always leave scars. (References previous NON-CON situations.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings: **This piece references **NON-CON** events in the past, and as such may be triggering for some. Please bear that in mind.  
> **Spoilers:** Just for Garrus' loyalty mission really.  
> **Author's Note**:This is a follow up to my fic "Broken Trust" and deals directly with the aftermath of the events in that story. (Specifically non-con between Garrus and F!Shep.) Please do NOT read any further if references to non-con situations bother you. This story will not be as physically visceral as "Broken Trust" but will attempt to delve into the emotional aspects a bit more. Also, there will be NO magic, healing sex in this story. So if that is what you are after, feel free to walk on by. I'm estimating 3 to 5 parts for this fic, but it is a WIP, so take that with a grain of salt.

The Citadel looks different at night.

Sure, the over-sized station may lack a distinct day/night cycle, but there are still periods of lower activity that coincide with the majority of the inhabitants internal clocks. Some of the shops and kiosks close and the number of people milling about is considerably less. For that, Shepard is thankful. It means that there are far fewer prying eyes to watch her as she scuttles from the bar, and out into the main corridors of the lower wards, torn jacket clutched tight around her in one hand, a death grip on her hand cannon with the other.

She presses forward, her back stiff, and doing her best to ignore the few sidelong stares she gets as she weaves her way through the wards. She makes her way towards one of the nearby med-clinics, and only feels moderately guilty when she hacks through the security system and enters the closed facility.

Swiftly, she pops open the medi-gel dispenser and grabs a few packs, mentally cursing herself for having changed out of her armor in the first place. She leans her back against the wall and slumps to the floor, the tension in her legs giving way to shaky exhaustion, and the medi-gel packet slipping from her grip.

"Damn it!" Shepard smacks an open palm against the floor, and bites back a string of curses as she grabs the packet up again and peels the remains of her damaged jacket back from the wound on her neck to rub the gel into her flesh.

Her head is throbbing, and her brain swimming – but she dumps her quickly darkening thoughts into a compartment to be examined later. For now, she knows that she has wounds – horrible scraping and raw wounds – in places that she'd rather attend to in the privacy of her own quarters.

Once the bleeding on her neck has subsided enough, she pushes back to her feet, and searches in the cabinets and drawers for a replacement coat. She finds one in the third drawer of the lab table. One similar in style to Dr. Chakwas' – only sized for a male – and shrugs it on.

It hangs on her like a shroud.

Shepard throws her bloodied one into a waste receptacle after she exits the facility, pointedly avoiding her reflection in the glass panes of the windows she passes on the way to her ship.

~~~\/~~~

There may not be a day/night cycle on the Citadel, but Shepard has made sure that they stay to one on the _Normandy_. Which is why when she enters the ship, the lights are dimmed to 65%, and the crew is skeletal. She immediately turns away from the airlock, and the cockpit behind it, and heads towards the CIC and the elevator beyond. Joker's voice makes her catch her step fifteen paces in, however.

"Commander, EDI and I were having a little disagreement about -"

She tosses a hand up to quiet him, but doesn't turn around. Uncertain what she looks like, and not in the mood to field any questions. "Joker. It's been a long night, and we're docked. Get some sleep." Her tone is curt, and she doesn't bother to wait for a response. Even so, the fading sound of Joker's next words send a shiver up her spine.

"Geez – touchy..." She can hear the tell-tale sign of his chair as he swivels back around. "Mission: retrieve the stick from Garrus' ass must not have gone as well as she hoped."

Shepard manages to make it out of earshot before EDI replies.

The elevator ride to her cabin is insufferably long, and the tension inside of her is coiling fast, and ready to snap. The scream of frustration is already building in her throat when the door opens with a ping. She exhales, long and shaky, and heads into her quarters.

"EDI: Security protocol 5, alpha 6-4. No one gets in this room without my express authorization. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Commander Shepard."

She nearly thanks the AI, but catches herself with only a nod, and moves towards the head, her hamster (the one Garrus got her during their first trip back to the Citadal following her resurrection) makes a squeaking noise, and scratches at the glass. She ignores it, and passes into the bathroom.

She swivels the water dial halfway to the left, and then slouches down fully clothed onto the toilet, avoiding the mirror hanging above the sink. She prods at the tender skin below her left eye, and knows that there will be a large bruise adorning her face by morning. The eye it is situated beneath feels swollen. Shepard has enough experience with injuries to be able to clearly visualize the broken capillaries bursting all around a bloodshot iris.

A flash of memory – of her head hitting the hard ground so unexpectedly; of being flipped; pressed; her face rubbing harshly against the unforgiving surface – darts through her mind, and the hand examining her face clenches into an instinctive fist.

She blinks, and pushes the thoughts away, releasing the fist and running loose fingers through the rats nest on her head. Her hair is a mess, matted down against her scalp and neck. There is a large knot throbbing at the back of her skull, and it sends little shots of pain into her nervous system every few seconds.

Reluctantly, she stands, and places her gun – the one that has remained clutched oh-so-tightly in her gun hand since she retrieved it – on the edge of the sink; a shudder racks her body when it clinks against the metal.

Slowly, she peels the stolen coat from her upper body, letting it drop with a thud to the ground. Next, is the practically useless piece of ripped skin-tight cloth that was once her undershirt. There had been a third layer when she left the Normandy earlier, but that got left behind.

She lets her eyes wander upward, far enough to lock on the reflection of the ragged – but healing – tear along her throat. Several medium-sized, evenly spaced teeth marks adorn the area around it. Trailing down over her clavicle, to stain the skin of her breast and abdomen, are dried tracks of blood. She can see their companions – the result of his claws – scratching up, down, and out from the waist of her pants. Some of them are already they are scabbing over, the result of Cerberus cybernetics at work. But others are deeper, and still bleeding. Those will need more medi-gel, but there is little point in applying it now, when the water will just wash it off. She unhooks her pants and allows them to join their discarded counterparts on the floor.

Steam is beginning to billow about the room, and fogging up the mirror – obscuring the view of the wounds she suddenly can't take her eyes from. Shepard reaches across the space, and wipes a dirty hand over the mirror's surface, leaving an uneven path by which to see herself.

The person before her is a murky reflection, the colors dimmed by the low light in the room, the humid air, and her own fogged mind. The mirror is not full length, but she can just make out a pattern of bruises and caked-on crimson around her hips. A quick flex of her shoulders reminds her that there is a similarly shaped set of wounds in the middle of her back.

If she were any less flexible, she'd have to worry about how she'd apply medi-gel to those.

She shucks her boots off and kicks them under the sink; wishing to the gods that she'd never changed out of her armor in the first place before searching out Garrus in that damnable bar.

A split second after she steps under the steaming spray of water she notices that her hand is trembling. Unthinking, Shepard balls it up, and pounds the fleshy part of it against the wall. Once. Twice. Again and again. Until the vibrations of the metal wall echo the ringing in her ears and the thrumming of blood in her veins, and her hand is perfectly still.

She moves under the nozzle, and is completely drenched in blistering heat for approximately ten seconds before the fail-safes kick in, and the water cools to a less damaging temperature. Shepard watches, detached, as warm rivulets of red seep from her myriad wounds, dripping down towards the drain, to be washed away. She leans her head forward, pressed against the paneled wall. If the water on her face is slightly more salty than the rest, well, it's not like anyone else will ever know.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

There is something broken inside of him. The result of too much weight pressing down on all of the most important parts; until it caves in, with an almost audible snap deep within his soul.

Garrus inhales a deep, lung-swelling breath; counting backwards from ten before opening his eyes, and taking in the wreckage that is now his life.

There is blood on his hands, in both the figurative and very literal sense. In the back of his mind, he can still see the carcasses of his crew, splayed out upon the floor in dizzying detail. Can still see the back of Sidonis' head as the bastard flees from his scope. That alone is nearly enough to make him snarl.

But it is the sight before him, the sight of shining red droplets caking the tips of his talons, and staining the skin of his palms – nearly dried now – that demands his attention. It cracks as he flexes his fingers, little dried bits flaking off and falling away in a crimson dust.

The still intact portions of his mind crack along a similar path, and he struggles to rein himself in, unsure of whether he'd ever be able to catch himself, should he drift away now.

_By the Spirits, what have I done?_

The room around him seems smaller with her gone. The floor beneath him, dirty; and the fabric of the couch that his back is pressed against is an unpleasant texture against his over-sensitized hide.

Another breath, and his nasal passages – always so highly attuned to the changes in air pressure, and fleeting odors – are assaulted with a variety of scents, but the lingering smell of sex is most prevalent. His. Shepard's. Even the asari from earlier.

The combination of odors makes the whiskey in his stomach go sour, and the urge to vomit is nearly uncontrollable. But he manages that much at least.

Music pounds a deep staccato against the door and walls surrounding him, and he recalls where he is; recalls with startling clarity the glare that Shepard gave him when she first crossed the threshold. Can still taste the disappointment – the concern – she showed once they were alone. But mostly, he remembers the lack of fear in her eyes when he first pressed close; when he first drew his now stained fingers across her soft skin. How her eyelids fluttered briefly shut, and the breathy gasp that she gave in response.

The bass rumbles loudly as the song in the bar changes, and with it, his synapses fire off in quick succession. He can still feel the beat of her hands, balled into fists, as they rained down on his shoulders, his chest, his back. Any part they could reach. Can finally pull the cries of fear and anger and _nostopthisstopstop_**stop!** from where they were shucked to…_during, _and hears them play out in an infinite loop.

He loses the battle with the whiskey, and lets it join the other stains marring the hideous floor.

It is some time before he is able to settle his stomach enough to pull himself as together as the chipped up pieces of his spirit will allow. It is longer still until he can force himself to stand, and put as much distance between the bar, the room, and himself as possible.

~~~\/~~~

The main battery is quiet, and warm. The gentle thrum of the ship's guns reverberates throughout the space, and he matches the pace of his breath to them – trying to cool his mind, and slow his still pounding heart.

But meditation has never been his strong suit, and he's doing as lousy of a job of it now as he has in the past.

Garrus knows that he shouldn't be here, shouldn't have come within fifty meters of the _Normandy_. This place is _hers_. And he has no right being on board. Not now. Not after…

He swallows uselessly, trying to dissolve the bitter, dry taste in his mouth. Absurdly, he wants another drink. Anything, anything at all to wash away the knowledge of what he did, even if only for a moment.

He'd considered tucking tail and running, as far and as fast as he could. Thought about getting passage on some nameless freighter and airlocking himself at the first available opportunity. He can practically hear his father's grating voice in his skull, telling him that he still can. That he _should_. Telling him, in that no-nonsense way of his, that any respectable turian would turn themselves in, or save the authorities the trouble by taking a more permanent course of action.

He's never wanted to be a good turian so much before in his life.

But he's not, and so he didn't do any of those things. Instead, he slipped as lightly as he could from the bar – cursing its continued existence – and made his way with heavy footsteps to the only place he's been able to think of as home since he was a child.

Tail tucked, but not exactly running.

He hadn't been certain what to expect when he arrived. Dimly, he'd thought Shepard might have barred his entry from the ship, or that there would be a security detail waiting to apprehend him. Or worse, that she'd be waiting – gun in hand – to sink a bullet in his brain like she should have hours before. But none of that happened.

Instead, Joker was at the helm – as per usual – rambling about something nonsensical (to Garrus at least) with EDI. The pilot had paid him little attention – save for a nod of acknowledgment, and an off-hand remark about spending the night in a bottle. Garrus had ignored him and made his way unhindered to the battery; in desperate need of a shower, and with no clue how he was ever going to face her again.

The thought of seeing her brings another wave of nausea to his stomach. But there is nothing left to empty from it, so instead it just rumbles at him.

Spending the night in the airlock is sounding like a better idea every minute. Maybe he'd accidentally get evac-ed with the morning trash. Of course, the _Normandy _being docked poses a bit of a problem. Being spaced tends to work better when you are actually _in_ space after all.

Inevitably, this line of thinking leads him back to Shepard. How could it not? He's spent more hours than are healthy torturing himself with thoughts of what it was like for her to die that way. To have all of the air sucked from her lungs, and have her body freeze in the cold vacuum of space. The only benefit to such a death was probably how quick the actual death part was.

And after what happened…he's not so sure he deserves such an easy out. Maybe Shepard would disagree though. He really doesn't know, but he wouldn't blame her if she did.

The image of her bruised face and her bloodied flesh jumps into his vision, overlaid by the tactile recollection of her skin against his. He has to shake himself to break its hold on him. All the anger that had fueled him earlier is gone, replaced by layer upon layer of self-centered disgust.

_"Stay away from me, Vakarian."_

He clenches his eyes from the memory. From the image of her that is burned onto the back of his retinas. From the look of fury on her face.

From the look of pain.

A thought worms its way into Garrus' mind, and his heart stumbles in his chest. _Did she even_... "EDI? Has Shepard returned to the ship?"

"Commander Shepard returned to the _Normandy _approximately two and a half hours ago, Officer Vakarian. She has indicated that she does not wish to be disturbed, would you like me to deliver a message?"

Garrus flinches at the question, even while feeling relieved to learn that she was indeed back on board. He's not sure where else she might have gone, and he doesn't want to dwell on the possibilities either. "No. No. There's no need. That'll be all, EDI."

"Logging you out, Officer."

Garrus drops his body to the cot he has situated behind the stack of crates that serve as the makeshift walls of his sleeping area. He could have bunked in the crew quarters when he first came on board – but there was something distinctly uncomfortable about sleeping with Cerberus employees surrounding him on all sides. They claimed to be fine working beside a turian, but the looks in their eyes when he would linger too long in their space always put him on edge. Like they didn't think he could be trusted.

The breath freezes in his lungs when he realizes that they were right.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

The hours between her shower and 'morning' are wasted on Shepard. She spends at least two-thirds of the time simply staring out of her overhead window, watching the little blinking lights that adorn the arms of the citadel's docking clamps. The rest of the time is spent in a fitful slumber that is, in so many ways, worse than having gotten no sleep at all.

But all things come to an end, and her pitiful attempt at rest is interrupted by Joker's voice cheerfully blaring over the comm.

"Commander Shepard, this is your pilot speaking – it's 1150 Zulu, and a gorgeous afternoon here at the Citadel. Planning to join the living anytime today? Or should I let the crew know that they can remain on shore leave indefinitely?"

She sighs, and rubs the tips of her fingers into the corners of her eyes, swiping away the muck that has formed the last few hours. "Negative, Joker. Shore leave ends whether the boss gets her ass out of bed or not."

"Awww, pity! I was hoping to take some down time at the Dark Star. They got these drinks with little umbrellas? _Very_ tasty. Buuut, at least you saved me the trouble of playing an AI in rock-paper-scissors to see who'd get the job of waking you in person – for the record? I'd have won. On account of the AI not having hands or anything."

"_Joker_." Normally she enjoys his back and forth, but this morning her patience is entirely too frayed to put up with it.

"Wanted to let you know that as of approximately fifteen minutes ago, all crew-members are present and accounted for; ready to leave port at your say-so, Commander."

Shepard chokes on the air in her lungs, seeing dots of light flicker in and out of her vision. "_All _crew members, Joker?"

"Yup, every last one. Don't think you want to know where some of 'em have been though – I think Donnelly had a particularly interesting evening, if the fact that Daniels had to practically carry him back on the ship is anything to go on. I gotta tell ya, EDI is going to have her work cut out for her when it comes to filtering our waste water. Just sayin'."

"Mr. Moreau, I always operate at optimum capacity. The filtration systems on-board the _Normandy_ do not require any additional effort on my part as a result of recent crew activities."

"EDI, remember how we discussed the whole 'shush' concept? Now would be an excellent time to practice."

"Mr. Moreau, I fail to see -"

"Enough!" Shepard runs a heavy hand down her face, hissing in pain as she contacts the bruise that formed overnight – as suspected. "Alright, if..._everyone_" the word catches in her throat, but she works her tongue past it, "is on board, then let's get out of here. I've had enough of this damn station."

"Got it, Commander. Any particular coordinates you want me to follow, or is flying around aimlessly our goal for now?"

"While aimlessly sounds good, Joker, I know there's some business between here and the Valhallan Threshold that Miranda was going on about yesterday. Might be something for us to take care of on our way to the Migrant Fleet. Just...point us that way, and I'll get more specific coordinates to you once I've met with her. Later. After coffee."

"Yeah – about the coffee. Remember how I mentioned everyone was a little worse for wear today?"

"Yes?"

"Well, I see a coffee shortage in our very near future."

"Just drive, Joker." She sighs heavily, and lies down – gingerly – on her still sore back. "Just drive."

"Aye, aye, Commander. Joker out."

~~~\/~~~

Getting up and getting dressed takes more effort than Shepard likes. There are tears in areas that she doesn't want to think about, and bruising that makes her whole body throb. But her head hurts and her stomach aches though, so a trip to the mess hall is priority.

She does her best not to think about who she might run into down there.

She's barely rounded the corner into the mess when a mocking voice interrupts her quest for caffeine. "Damn, Shepard. You look like you've been chewed up by a Varren and shit out. What the hell happened, and why wasn't I invited?"

Shepard snorts. "Tell you what, Jack. The next time I decide to get up close and personal with a Varren, you'll be the first to know."

Shepard ignores the grating sound of the younger woman's laugh and instead digs through the mess cabinets looking for fresh coffee, with no success. She could probably locate Gardner, and have him pull a magic stockpile out of some secret cupboard, but it's easier to set the machine to run water through the already used grounds, so she does that instead. It'll taste like swill, but get the job done. And that's all that matters.

"Nah, boss. Don't do me any favors. Seriously, though, you look like shit."

Shepard folds her arms across her chest, trying to will the slowly percolating pot to brew faster. "It's the morning after shore leave, Jack. What do you expect?"

The younger woman arches a brow at Shepard, leaning back in her chair so that it rests against the bulkhead behind her. "Me personally? I'd expect you to look like the morning after shore leave. A hangover – maybe the tell-tale sign of good-old fashioned alcohol poisoning. I was here when you got drug back in from your little Ryncol adventure, remember? Now** that**'s what you look like after you've cut loose. Right now you look like you've gone a few rounds with a krogan, or maybe a really pissy asari."

Shepard leans against the counter, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling and praying for patience. "Thanks, Jack. You do wonders for the old ego."

An ugly smile spreads across Jack's face, as she slowly lowers the chair back onto all fours. "So, what gives?"

"Nothing gives, Jack. Just...a rough night." A beeping from behind Shepard alerts her that the coffee is ready, and with more than a little relief, she turns to pour herself a cup; gratefully swallowing down the liquid, despite its relation to molten tar.

Lowering the mug, her eyes focus on the inky liquid, and her attention wanders unbidden: the slow stroke of a talon along her clavicle, the brush of a scarred mandible along the side of her throat. She feels her heart start to pound, a loud staccato in her ears as those soft, nearly pleasant memories quickly mutate, to be replaced by the phantom feeling of needle like teeth piercing the skin of her throat, and the foreign expression that overtook Garrus' face once he'd thrown her to the floor. Like he simultaneously hated her, and was completely unaware that she even existed.

Her hand clenches around the mug until she can feel little pinpricks of pain in her fingertips and knuckles as a result of the intensity of her grip. If the cup wasn't made out of metal, she's certain it would have shattered under the pressure by now. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, she's sure, but hell if she can tease it out right now.

Garrus was her friend. The one person that she could always count on. The one that she could always trust to have her six; but now…

The sound of fingers snapping in front her face brings her back to the present. She finds Jack standing two feet from her with an odd look on her face. If Shepard didn't know better, she'd label it as concern. "Just a rough night, huh?"

"Hmm? Oh – uh, yeah." Shepard shakes herself to clear her head, and tries to plaster a smile on her face, but it feels hollow. "Nothing a little coffee can't cure."

"Bullshit." Jack's in her face now and Shepard has to lean back a little to be able to focus her eyes on the biotic.

"Excuse me?"

"I call bullshit." A light trace of spittle hits Shepard in the eye, but she's frozen in place, and so doesn't bother to wipe it away. Several beats pass, with heavy-lined brown eyes boring into hers. Shepard's bruised eye twitches. She isn't sure what the biotic is trying to accomplish, but she finds that her voice has left her.

Another moment passes and Jack just shrugs and steps away from her. The fact that the distance makes it suddenly easier to breathe makes Shepard feel weak. "But hell, I don't really give a fuck, so feel free to keep lying to yourself."

And with that, Jack stomps from the room, combat boots clunking loudly against the deck. Tension Shepard hadn't even realized she was carrying drains from her as the biotic leaves, and she lets her body slump against the mess hall wall. Pain sears through her and she hisses at the reminder of the still open sore on her back. Her eyes flicker briefly in the direction of the main battery before snapping forward and locking on the med-bay across from her.

She eyes the empty viewing window of the med-bay warily, then dumps the remains of her coffee and squares her shoulders. Her back is screaming out for an application of medi-gel, and a fruitless search of her quarters last night proved that she needs to restock her armor's supply anyway. If she's lucky, Chakwas will be in her regular afternoon meeting with Mordin, and she won't have to deal with another inquisition.

One can only hope.

~TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blocked. Like a seriously, blocked...thing. And it's resulted in my scraping this chapter a half-dozen times over, before settling on this version. Here's hoping that it works.

When the quiet hum of the main battery becomes a constant pounding in his ears, and the heat of the cramped space turns uncomfortable, Garrus finds refuge in the bowels of the ship, where the training modules and simulators are set up.

The ship, being a Cerberus vessel, has a well-stocked work-out facility...for humans. There is a sizable section of the lowermost hold set aside for that use; with all manner of machines filling the space. The purpose of many of them Garrus can only guess at (one machine resembles automated stairs, leading to nowhere; humans are a strange bunch). Despite the presence of the equipment, there is a disappointing lack of sparring mats, or hand-to-hand combat sims. It's a feature that the first Normandy lacked as well, and while Garrus is use to it at this point, he still finds it frustrating.

This ship trumps the first by leaps and bounds, however, in that it possesses an indoor shooting range. Humans consider it a luxury, but Garrus thinks of it as a necessity. Not only for testing out new weapons, or keeping skills sharp, but for stress relief as well. Something he is in desperate need of, a mere two days after he...after Shepard...

He shakes his head, trying to clear it of the dark thoughts infesting his brain. With a nudge of his shoulder, he adjusts the Incisor rifle so that it is nestled more comfortably in the hollow of his arm, and takes aim at the holographic projection at the far end of the range. He's still trying to get use to the new weapon, and its odd triple-round firing mechanism. Something about it doesn't feel quite natural to him, and he knows that only time logged firing it will help to relieve that sensation.

It doesn't help that his hands are shaking minutely as he grasps the gun. Finger fluttering over the trigger like he's some wet behind the fringe cadet. He pauses, releasing a breath as he focuses on the center of the target, only to flinch when instead he sees a curtain of dark hair obscuring Sidonis' dead-eyed gaze through the scope. His shots miss their mark by several centimeters, and when he looks up, the ghosts are gone.

He growls low in his throat, and realigns the rifle, settling back down into position, and waiting until his mind is clear enough to take a shot.

But a clear mind is something he left back on the Citadel - maybe even back before Omega - and the longer he focuses on the holographic target, the more blurry it becomes. It's been a day and a half since the ship vacated the Serpent Nebula, and approximately ten hours since it has been trolling the Minos Wasteland for resources, and he's been doing his damnedest to keep a low profile while he sorts out the charred remains of his mind, but nothing seems to help.

It's fitting, he thinks, that the Normandy has gone static in a resource hunt so close to Invictus. He wonders if it's a hint from Shepard to get the hell off her ship. Take his leave for a planet populated by dextro-amino life, and rife with criminal activity. It'd be a fitting drop-off point for him, he thinks. No better than Omega at the core of it, though they pretty it up nicely for the Primarchs. It's more than what he deserves, really, but, as yet, they haven't left the Fortis System. So he waits; trying his best to hit the minuscule target, and not think about the cavernous hole his need for vengeance, and what it ultimately lead to, has left in his soul.

His finger flexes, and another series of three shots rings out in the empty space, missing more wildly this time than previous. The string of curses that subsequently thread through the air would make Jack proud. His language is certainly more colorful now that it was before he ever joined the hunt for Saren. Back before a Spectre with a 'get-the-job-done-at-any-cost' attitude came into his life, and turned it on its head.

Back before she died, and he was left floating with no sense of direction, grasping at whatever solid surface he could find - only to find out that there was no such thing. Back before ten good men littered the floor of a dirty apartment with nothing to show for it but gallons of merc blood, more than a few broken families, and a whole lot of misplaced trust in the wrong turian.

The fact that he has no idea anymore if that turian was Sidonis, or himself doesn't surprise him. Though, he's leaning more towards the latter these days.

He lowers his head, and takes a few deep breaths. After a moment, he snaps his eyes back to the target, and lines up the next shot; doing his damnedest to ignore the slight tremor in his grip.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Strip mining planet after planet is not exactly Shepard's idea of a good time, but it does serve the function of numbing her to her surroundings, and that's something that she can't put a high enough value on right now. The system is slow, archaic, but that has its benefits. Namely, the crew tend to leave her alone when she is at work guiding the scanners, and launching probes. Because they know that if they bother her, the task will fall on them. At some point she needs to consider upgrading the scanners, as efficiency is more important than peace and quiet, but it's low on the list of priorities, with the Thannix Cannon upgrade trumping all else at the moment.

The reminder of the cannon brings thoughts of Garrus skidding to the surface of her mind: his mandibles held tightly in check as he looks up at her, half-clothed from his place sprawled on the couch in the back room of the bar. She can still smell the cloying scent of the asari's perfume mixed with the odor of alcohol suffusing the room. Shepard blinks her eyes once to clear the thoughts; taking a moment to steady her breathing before continuing with her work.

She shifts in her seat, the squelching noise of leather breaking the steady electronic hum of the CIC. The seats _are_ quite comfortable, Joker wasn't wrong about that. And they help to distract from the uncomfortable sensations still present between her thighs - in places that medi-gel simply can't reach; at least, not without visiting Chakwas. And Shepard'll be damned if she'll do that.

She initiates one more scan of Vir, hoping to eek out a little more platinum from the planet's core, and is rewarded for her efforts by the audible feedback from the sensor array. Her command to launch a probe is immediately met with a 'thunking' sound, and EDI's ever-patient voice follows shortly thereafter. "The planet's resources have been depleted, Commander."

There is a slow throb growing in strength behind her eyes and following the path of her limbs all the way through her body; demanding her attention, and so this seems as good a time as any to deal with. She reluctantly vacates the chair, stretching her arms over head, and popping her shoulder in place (an old rotator cuff injury from basic that never quite healed). Feeling unsteady on her feet, she braces herself against the back of the chair as she stumbles. A glance from Crewman Matthews to her right lets her know that the move didn't go unnoticed, but the man averts his eyes quickly enough, allowing her to save some face.

A droplet of sweat rolls down the back of her neck, and meets up with the chill running up her spine. She needs coffee. Something to help relieve the headache, and make her feel human again. "Joker - set a course for Aequitas, and begin scans. I'm going to go shake down Gardner for whatever hidden caffeine stockpile he has on this boat."

"Certainly, Commander. Wouldn't want to do anything as sacrosanct as leaving a deposit of iridium untapped."

"Laugh it up, Joker, and maybe I won't upgrade the shields around the cockpit."

"Now that's just mean spirited. Besides, you need me. Who else can provide you with witty and insightful one-liners, while still being spry enough to outmaneuver every other ship in the Terminus Systems? I'm a two for one deal! You should count yourself lucky."

She reaches up to rub at her temple. "Every day, Joker. Now, get us moving."

"Yeah, yeah. Course locked in. Endless supplies of iridium, here we come!"

A small smile creases her face despite herself. "Thanks." She pushes off the back of the chair and makes her way to the elevator, and down to the mess hall - grateful that it's not mealtime. The thought of having to deal with...anyone, is less than appetizing.

Her gratitude is short-lived, however, when she is flagged down the moment the elevator doors nods at her XO, and tries to walk past the other woman, but instead the brunette falls into step with the Commander. Genetic perfection apparently doesn't include the ability to discern when her presence is wanted or not. Or, maybe it does, and she just doesn't give a damn. Either way, Shepard really needs to stop going to the mess hall, everyone is always looking to _talk_.

"Shepard, I wanted to inform you that the timetable for our retrieval mission has changed." The pitch of Miranda's voice makes the short hairs on Shepard's neck bristle, but she does her best to ignore it. "I took the liberty of speaking with Mr. Moreau, and have given him the coordinates for to the Melile satellite, we're en-route now. I was hoping that you would have a few minutes for a debriefing session. This mission is...delicate, and I want to make sure that we are all on the same page prior to engaging."

Shepard steps off the elevator, and stretches her neck to the left, delighting in the popping sensation that results from the movement. If only all of her aches and pains were so easily rectified. "So I recall you mentioning while we were docked. Several times." It isn't an exaggeration. Shepard had been pacing through the ship, trying to decide what to do about Garrus: whether to go after him, or to leave him be, when Miranda had cornered her. She wonders how things may have turned out if she had only allowed herself to be sidetracked...

She shakes her head once, feeling like her brain is loose inside her skull, and being battered against the bone as she does so, only to find Miranda still standing there, arms crossed in front of her chest in a stereotypically defensive posture. Shepard would put money on it being more for show than anything. "I realize that you had more...immediate concerns on you mind when I was detailing the requirements of this mission-"

Shepard arches a brow, flinching a tad at the reminder of the sore flesh surrounding the area. The bruising has gone down somewhat, but the tenderness still remains. "Cerberus scientist, specializing in heavy weapons research, theorized to be highly effective against synthetic lifeforms. Tech that might be useful against the Reapers. Managed to get herself kidnapped by batarians. Illusive Man wants her back, and has worked out some sort of deal with the raiders. Now we get to go play middleman. That about right?"

"I- correct, Commander. I'm impressed."

Shepard wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead, wondering if the fluctuations in temperature she is experiencing are a result of some problem with the ship's climate control, or are, in fact, internal. The ever posed woman in front of her makes Shepard think that it must be the latter, but it's a bit had to tell. "Believe it or not, Miranda, I take my job very seriously. Even when I'm being bombarded with information from my XO while trying to get the hell off the ship." Shepard can't help the slight pull in her lips at the chagrined expression on said XO's face, somewhat glad that Miranda is so focused on the kidnapped scientist, that she isn't calling Shepard out on her current state of appearance.

Miranda's arms drop to her side. "I wasn't implying that you don't, merely that you'd been distracted-"

"Stop worrying, Miranda. I get it. And you're right. We need to go over the specs for the mission before we reach orbit - EDI, what's our ETA?"

"We are approximately six hours from our destination, Commander."

"Thanks, EDI."

"You're welcome, Commander."

The pounding behind Shepard's eyes reaches a crescendo, and she looks towards the mess hall, and Gardner's empty work station, with longing. Choosing instead to forgo the coffee in favor of laying down in her quarters. She shifts her steps, and moves backwards towards the elevator. "Miranda - you know the details better than me at this point. So organize a meeting in...say...five hours? We can go over all the ins and outs then, prior to shuttling down to the moon, sound good? But for now, I've got a monster of a headache that needs to be dealt with."

"Understood, Shepard." A smile plays at Miranda's mouth, excitement lacing her voice. Apparently all Shepard had to do to make her happy was give her complete control of organizing a mission. Go figure.

The elevator doors open once again, and Shepard climbs on board, absurdly grateful that of the two women she has encountered in the mess, that Jack has turned out to be the more perceptive of the two. Shepard doubts that she could handle an interrogation from Miranda with as much calm as she did Jack's.

The metal doors sweep closed between them, and Shepard's shoulders sag. The effort of maintaining an upright posture for the length of one conversation has wiped out the last of her reserves, an she wants nothing more than to crawl into her bed, and never get out. She slumps against the cool metal, and waits for the lengthy ride to her cabin to end, pressing her hand into her head to try and relieve the pressure. She's got her work cut out for her, if she is going to be ready for another mission so soon.

~~~\/~~~

Dinner time has come and gone, and Shepard's headache has mutated into something all-consuming, and rather frightening. Her skin feels clammy to the touch, and she can't seem to get the climate control in her cabin working right, despite her best efforts. She's burning up one minute, and fighting off chills the next. And completely unable to sleep. She's sick. There's no getting around it, and her increasing level of fatigue is not helping the healing process.

It's annoying, she thinks, that she can plummet through an atmosphere, ending up _dead._ Nothing but 'meat and tubes' for Cerberus to rebuild her body from, complete with upgrades, but she's still susceptible to a damn cold. She guesses there's no preventing some things.

She huffs out a bitter laugh, and drops her head onto the papers littering her desk. She's spent most of the afternoon poring over reports (something she has managed to neglect since day one), in an effort to distract herself, but it's been a futile effort. Everything she does, or tries to do, leads her thoughts back to the same thing.

She'd wanted him. God damn it, how she had wanted him. Willingly pressed her body into his, enjoying the sensations that he was provoking at first. She'd been shocked when he'd torn her shirt from her, leaving it a tattered mess, but it hadn't dimmed the lust that was thrumming through her veins. Not yet at least. But then…then her skin had been next, and there was _pain _and she tried to get him to back off a bit but he hadn't – he hadn't. Instead he'd gotten more aggressive, and then…

She tries desperately to suppress the full body shudder at the memory, and fails. The memory of her fists knocking uselessly against his armored plates (she should have been able to beat him back, she should have...); of her calling for him to calm down, to wait a minute, to back the hell off, to **stop** – it swims in her brain. But he hadn't seemed to notice; hadn't seemed to _care. _And he didn't stop.

Not until her head was ringing and her body was aching and her mind was completely disconnected and he was **done.** And it had taken more self-control than she knew she had to not kill him when she had the chance.

How did it all get so twisted?

Her personal terminal beeps, alerting her to the time, and jarring her out of her memories. _Shit._ She swipes a hand across her face, and moves to stand, swaying in place for a minute. With deliberate steps, she crosses her cabin to her side-table, where a surplus of med supplies she pilfered from the med-bay the previous morning reside.

The stimulants, once injected, course through her system with devilish speed, bringing with them a level of clarity that sets her somewhat on edge. It's a worthwhile price to pay, if it means that she can get through the next half-dozen hours in a fully functional state.

She slides a few spare packs into her armor, tucking them up against the medi-gel dispensers, and then dons the equipment before heading down to the comm room. With any luck, Miranda will have everything all set, and the mission will go off without a hitch,

And maybe she'll see Mordin about some sleeping meds when they're done.

~~~\/~~~

"My suggestion is that we station snipers here and here." Miranda's white-gloved hands tap out two locations on the digital terrain map illuminated in the center of the comm room table. The positioning makes sense, since it will allow both snipers an unhindered vantage point to cover Shepard as she makes the exchange. And will allow for cover five for the scientist, should it come to that. Very deliberately not looking up, Shepard nods her agreement to her XO.

"Alright. Thane, Zaeed, you're with me. Miranda, I want you to stay on comm with me for this one. If this scientist is as important as the Illusive Man says she is, I'm going to want your input if things turn south."

There is a brief hesitation from her XO, and it causes Shepard to lift her head from the map to glance at the other woman. The team Miranda has assembled for the meeting was streamlined, and only included the snipers, Jacob, and Tali. And of those whose eyes she can see, there is a distinct ripple of surprise.

Shepard knows what they are all thinking, but damn it, she has no intention of explaining herself. It's taken every ounce of willpower she has already to make it through this meeting, jaw clenched, and eyes directed forward and down with a modicum of self-control. And she'll be damned if she loses it now. So instead, she raises her eyebrows, still leaning on the table, both hands gripping the edge with more force than strictly necessary. "Is there a problem, Miranda?"

The hesitation that the XO exhibited previously is gone now with Shepard's permission to speak freely given. "This mission calls for absolute precision and timing. The Illusive Man has indicated that Dr. Linus' safety is of the utmost import. I would think that a slightly different squad make up would be preferable." The genetically perfected woman doesn't stutter, but her confusion is obvious as her gaze flickers momentarily to the corner of the room where Garrus is situated.

Shepard hasn't actually looked directly at him since the meeting began. Something made infinitely easier by the fact that he hasn't spoken, or drawn attention to himself in anyway. But that barely matters, because she can _feel _him back there, her skin prickling uncomfortably from his proximity. She keeps her eyes focused on the blue-eyed gaze of her second in command. "I'm aware of that, Miranda. Are you saying that you don't believe that Mr. Massani or Mr. Krios are capable of both precision, _and _timing?"

"No, Commander."

"Good." Shepard's eyes drift involuntarily towards the turian in the corner; his mandibles held tight to his jaw and his expression unreadable. She'd thought he'd been easy to read at one point in time, but now she wonders if it hadn't all been in her head. She doesn't trust herself enough to hold his gaze for more than a moment, and quickly averts her gaze.

"Massani, Krios, suit up."

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

After the shuttle leaves, Garrus sequesters himself away in the back corner of the battery, and hacks into the squads comm devices. EDI gives him little resistance, and he finds himself absurdly thankful for that. Stuffed away back here, no one can hear him listening into the team's chatter on his omni-tool, and that serves him just fine.

It's obsessive and more than a little pathetic, but he doesn't really care. Not when the mission calls for a snipe team to back up Shepard – and he isn't on it.

When Miranda had told him to be at the briefing, he'd known there was little point in his attendance. Regardless of the mission parameters, there was no way that he was going to end up on the ground team. He'd even given some consideration to skipping out on the meeting, had half-convinced himself that it would be better for all involved if he didn't show his face. But he knew that would lead to questions. Questions he doubted the Commander would want to deal with. And ultimately, someone - likely Jacob, or Tali - coming down to the main battery to cart his ass to the comm room.

And the only thing that he could think of that would be worse than already being in the room when Shepard arrived, was walking in after she was already there. At least this way, he was able to make himself as scarce as possible in the brightly light location. Tucked far from the door, and gaze focused somewhere (anywhere) else. He feels like a coward, avoiding her the way that he is, but he knows that anything she says or does to him would be justified, and he isn't quite ready to face that.

And despite the fact that they didn't so much as exchange greetings, the entire situation in the meeting had been…tense, and painful. He'd done his best to keep his eyes trained away from her, not wanting to catch her off guard if she did chose to look up, only to have his gaze constantly pulled back to her.

He didn't know much about humans in general, that was true, but he did know plenty about _this_ human, and he could tell that she wasn't well. Her skin was paler than normal, and there was a slight discoloration beneath her eyes that he knows from experience is due to a lack of sleep in her species. Of course, that was augmented by the fact that the bruise near her one eye was still visible, albeit faded. The idea - no, the near-to-certain realization - that he, that what he _did_, was the cause for her looking so worn down, made his stomach turn.

The meeting had seemed to drone on and on, but it couldn't have lasted more than half an hour. Learning that the mission parameters required a sniper had piqued his interest, but as he'd assumed she would, she'd tapped Thane and Zaeed for the job instead. And the look that she had shot to Miranda when the XO tried to argue – actually in_ favor of _– Garrus' inclusion on the mission, had been like being doused in ice water.

Miranda may have been baffled by that look, but the brief flicker in his direction – the one that Shepard hadn't quite caught in time – had said it all.

There was no way in hell that she was trusting him at her six. And he didn't blame her. He didn't feel like he could trust himself anymore either. And if his experience in target practice that morning was any indication, he would be of little help regardless.

He could have argued it – pressed the matter. Tali and him were the only members of the squad known to get away with such things in the past. And maybe she would have given in, just to avoid the public confrontation. Or maybe she would have found a use for the perpetually empty brig down in the bowels of the ship. Just because he knows that he has no right to be on the ground team, doesn't mean that he is any less concerned about what'll happen when he's not. He has no concerns about Thane or Zaeed's capabilities, but he does have concerns about Shepard's, given the state he himself his in if nothing else. So, he locked himself away, back in the relative obscurity of the batteries, and settled down to listen in to the mission play-by-play.

Garrus doesn't need to be on the ground to know when the mission has gone to shit after all.

As he listens to the rifle fire, and heated commands being barked over the air, he digs his talons into the bar that makes up the brace for his cot; the cool metal bowing slightly under the pressure. Frustration and worry mix together to fire up his blood, and he jumps up, feeling the cot crack under the force. The battery doesn't offer much room for movement, but he manages to pace in a small circle. Feeling like one of the caged animals he'd seen in Palaven traveling exhibits as a child.

When the words 'wounded' and 'neck trauma' filter through the static-filled comm in Thane's ever even voice, Garrus doesn't stop to think. He just rushes through the doors of the battery, and speeds full course down the gangway towards the med-bay, pacing back and forth while he waits for her to be brought in, scattering various crew members hanging about the mess hall out of his way.

He only backs away when Shepard is brought up from the cargo hold, her left arm slung over Massani's shoulders as he half-carries her. Her head is lolling forward as she presses her right hand against the field-bandaged wound on her neck, but she still manages to bark out garbled orders that sound like 'Lay off!'

"Oh quit your shit, Shepard. You're bleeding like a stuck pig. What'dya gonna do, crawl through your own blood to get to the Doc?" The merc manages to sound both annoyed, and like he is having an excellent time all at once, as he carts her through the med-bay doors. Her mangled voice still harping at him - to low for Garrus to make out the words - but the merc's response trails audibly behind him. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear ya - Did I ever tell you about the time I was _shot in the head_?"

Garrus watches through the glass panel as Massani deposits Shepard none too gently on one of the cots. The fight seeming to go out of her as soon as her body touches the pad. Dr. Chakwas and Mordin are at her side in moments, dancing around her in well-choreographed steps. The merc doesn't hover, vacating the premises as soon as the Commander is out of his arms. He crosses through the mess hall, grumbling beneath his breath, and swiping at the blood that's coating his armor. The still wet liquid shining a vivid red under the overhead lights.

Garrus' mind flashes briefly to the stains on his talons, and the torn flesh of Shepard's hip, and neck. That same awful color. Coming back to the here and now, he slouches down against the mess hall counter, eyes locked on the window to the med-bay, and waits.

~TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** There is no excuse for how long it has taken me to get this chapter completed, and up, so I won't even bother trying to make up one. I'm just sorry for the wait folks. Rest assured (in case it was keeping you up at nights) that I am actively working on completing this fic, and am estimating two more parts until it is done. Thanks for your patience, and all your wonderful feedback, it keeps me going!

Garrus is tempted, so very, very tempted, to cross the distance between the mess and the med-bay, press past Chakwas and Solus, and see how much damage Shepard took down on that forsaken rock. He has to clench his hands into fists, feel the bite of talons in the soft-underside of his palms, to stop himself from moving. The knowledge that her skin was all-too recently marred by bruises, wounds, _damage_ that he was responsible for acting as a leash on his instincts.

She doesn't need him in there. Wouldn't want him there. And _Spirits_ know that he doesn't _deserve _to be there. He severed all rights he had to showing concern for her well-being two nights ago. Sliced and diced it along with a large chunk of his precarious grip on sanity.

Doesn't make the wanting, the nervous energy, any less choking though. No matter how much he might wish that it would. It would make it all so much easier if he could stop _caring._ Stop feeling anything at all. But he's never learned the art of numbness. If he had, he wouldn't torture himself looking at the names carved in his visor day in and day out. Wouldn't still feel the after-effects of his time on Omega, and how it all went to shit, with such intensity.

So instead, he stays outside the med-bay, watching with a growing sense of panic (one he does his best to keep under control) as the two doctors busy about the newly unconscious Shepard (forced sedation does wonders for an uncooperative patient). He wishes that he could find the strength to turn and walk away, barrel down the gangway to the batteries, leaving behind all the other gawking spectators in the mess to do as they will.

He can hear Gardner, a few paces behind and to his right, voice lowered to a murmur as he converses with Crewman Matthews, their voices too low for Garrus to make out any detail of the discussion. But the hush in their tone is indication enough that they are discussing Shepard. No reason to stay so quiet if they were only discussing today's slop masquerading as dinner.

He can see the crazy biotic that normally haunts the sub-levels of the ship perched on the edge of the table, engaged in a mostly one-sided (by the looks of it anyway) conversation with one of the engineers. She catches his eye for a minute, holding his gaze with a small downturn of her lips an a subtle cock to her head, that makes him feel ill at ease, and twitchy.

And that makes him what to leave all the more. Leave them and the scattered others filling up the space to their whisperings, and observations. Stalk off, and busy himself with the blessed monotony that makes up the bulk of his work in the batteries. Let EDI keep him up to date on Shepard's condition. What else is the damn AI good for anyhow? But he can't. Can't seem to pull himself away. Not even when Thane's solid presence settles against the bulkhead beside him, silent for too many long minutes. Long enough that it makes his plates itch.

It's a sensation he should be quite use to at this point, the other man has been Shepard's shadow from almost the moment he joined the crew. Which has placed him in close quarters with Garrus more often than not. And he's never been talkative, at least, not with Garrus. So it shouldn't matter, having the drell standing so near him. It's no different than the many missions they've been on. The watching; the waiting.

But it is. And it does. It matters. And the fact that it does, agitates him further. And that's a feeling Garrus dislikes intensely.

He wants to bark out curses at the other man; berate him for not doing his damn job properly down on the surface and allowing Shepard to get hurt. Has to bite back the gnawing urge to shove the man against the nearest bulkhead, just to hear what kind of thunk his skull would make on impact. Finds his talons itching to see how well matched their hand-to-hand combat skills really are.

He wants to do all of those things, but he doesn't. Because nothing that happened was even remotely Thane's fault. Even Garrus, in all his frustration and pulled thin patience, has to acknowledge that the assassin acted within mission parameters. Did everything that he should have, that he _could have_, to make sure the mission went off without a hitch.

It was Shepard who screwed up.

So, rather than lashing out at the drell, whose only crime is feeling concern for Shepard, Garrus swallows down his ever-present nausea, and attempts to center himself; tries to cling to the remains of his oft lauded discipline. But self-disgust and recriminations play on an endless loop in his head, overladen by the brutal memory of Shepard tugging clothes back over battered flesh, a lost look in her eyes. One he never could have imagined seeing.

One that he still can't quite fathom having put there.

One that he hopes to never see again.

One he would do _anything_ to make sure she'd have cause to use again.

"You haven't asked how she was injured." The vibrating vocals jar Garrus out of his internal revery, but do nothing to distract him from the scene playing out behind the med-bay glass. He doesn't feel like small talk. He'd like to ignore the man, but Garrus is painfully aware of the fact that they aren't the only ones hovering in the space between the mess and the med-bay, and the ship is too damn small for any sort of slight to go by without notice.

And the last thing Garrus needs right now is to feed the rumor mill; too many ugly truths waiting to be devoured and regurgitated.

"No. I didn't." Moments tick on by without further interruption by Thane, until Garrus can feel the weight of the drell's stare like it is a physical thing. Creeping and crawling across his plates like so many microscopic bugs. Finally, Garrus turns his head to meet that gaze head on, tired of the inspection. Those inky black orbs stare unblinking back at him. It's unsettling, to say the least. Of course, maybe that's the point. Garrus can imagine that even that stare is a skill well-honed after years of training.

Must have worked wonders on his marks.

"You got something to say, Krios, then say it."

"Since joining the crew, I have not known Shepard to leave you behind for a mission – least of all one where your talents could so clearly have been used." Garrus isn't fully versed in drell mannerisms, but the sensation of being appraised – _judged_ – is strong, and it pisses him off further. Keeping his emotions becoming harder with every passing second. He has to hope that his bluffing skills are up to the task. "I find that...curious." Garrus barely suppresses a bark of laughter. The drell was _there_ when Shepard convinced him to let Sidonis go. Saw how aggravated Garrus had been by the situation. Most have seen the look on Shepard's face when he dismissed her, and stalked off through the wards on his own.

But, then again, Krios wasn't witness to anything that came **after**. So maybe even from his perspective, Garrus' exclusion from the mission seemed out of place.

"Almost as curious as the fact that you were waiting here for Shepard's arrival, and that you have not yet...berated me for allowing her to come to harm."

"It wasn't your fault." The words are out of his mouth before he can think, giving away more than he would have liked, considering the circumstances. But there's nothing to be done for it now, so he lets the information sit out there between them. Leaving the decision to pursue it up to Thane. The assassin doesn't disappoint.

"Then you are aware of what happened during the mission." It is not a question, but a statement. The drell is many things, but Garrus doesn't believe him to be an idiot.

"I am."

"Can I also assume you noticed Shepard's somewhat...erratic behavior?"

Garrus clenches his mandibles, biting back the urge to hiss. He's not sure that _erratic_ would be the term he would chose to describe Shepard's haphazard attitude during the mission. An attitude that caused it to fail spectacularly, with the scientist they were charged to rescue, dead. Even so, he doesn't take well to a criticism of Shepard being aired where any member of the crew can hear it. "The Commander...is under a great deal of stress-"

A hand is raised quickly, cutting Garrus protest off rather effectively. "I do not disagree." Those dark eyes dart over Garrus' shoulder, finally seeming to assess their audience. The volume of the drell's voice drops markedly as a result. "But, in my short association with Shepard, I have noted her to be calm. Collected. Even in the face of considerable danger. This mission was easy, by comparison to some. And her decision to take such aggressive measures seemed...out of character."

Garrus snorts, his mouth continuing to work without stopping to consult his brain first. "Didn't use to be."

That earns him a double-blink, the most indication of surprise on the drell's face that Garrus has ever seen. The knowledge that he can shake that oh-so-stable demeanor makes him feel more like himself than he has in days. He isn't sure if that's a good thing or not. "How do you mean?"

Garrus drags his eyes back to the med-bay glass, focusing on the elegant movements of Chakwas, and the steady hands of Solus as they work on Shepard. And while he doesn't feel like he owes any explanation to the other man, something in him wants to give it regardless. Some part of him that is still confused and unsure of the changes that have taken place since the SR1. Changes that have hardened him in ways he never thought possible, changes that have simultaneously softened the Commander.

"Before she...died, Shepard use to be a shoot first, ask questions later person." As he says it, he realizes how much he allowed that philosophy to impact him. How he used it during his time on Omega to justify things, _actions_, that in the pit of his gullet, he knows Shepard at her most ruthless, never would have approved of.

He can remember, will all too much clarity, the bitter triumph he would feel with each sink of a bullet in every bastard merc's head. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the surprised look in a too young pair of eyes as some poor idiot, looking to take care of himself the only way he knew how, fell like a sack of meat to the grated deck at his feet. His only real crime having the gall to think he could take on the Archangel and live.

And Garrus can recall the resounding lack of pity that he felt. Every. Single. Time.

It makes the nausea swell inside him again, and he has to swallow back the taste of acid that creeps up his throat. "She wasn't a diplomat, Krios. Not even close." A memory of an unsuspecting reporter hitting the deck after one well-placed punch flares brightly in his mind. "Don't get me wrong, she could still talk the envirosuit off a Volus if she wanted, but she didn't care about keeping the peace. Just about getting the job done. Whatever the cost."

Garrus doesn't bother to point out that this time...that this time she_ failed _at getting the job done. There's no reason to, when they are well enough aware.

"I see." Garrus chances a glance at the drell, only to see him staring contemplatively at the med-bay, head tilted in thought. "This change in her behavior, it disturbs you."

He wants to say yes. Wants to tell Thane about the woman who told him to 'remember this feeling' when they took down Saleon. Wants to hurl the words out with all of the frustration and anger and, yes, _fear_ that has built up inside of him. Scream it all out. Demand an explanation for what happened to change her so much.

But then, then he recalls Shepard talking a young Corporal first out of revenge, then out of suicide; and Garrus thinks that maybe she hasn't changed all that much after all. Maybe's it's simply his view point that has been skewed. And ta makes him want to scream in frustration instead. Makes him want to confess to all of the horrid thoughts and images and deeds that plague his mind. From the time since Shepard was killed. From Omega. From the Citadel a few days prior. Wants to lay them out there for all to see. But he can't.

He _can't_.

And more importantly, he won't. Not to Krios. Krios who hasn't been through the same shit that Shepard and Garrus have. Who knows nothing about the tendrils of their lives that have become so tangled as to never be undone.

Who knows nothing of how Garrus has betrayed Shepard – in every conceivable way.

There is forgiveness that needs to be asked, begged, _pleaded_ for – but it is not Krios that needs to hear those words. It is not Krios that needs to know about the parts of Garrus that are bent, broken and cracked.

"Look, Krios, find someone else to have a heart-to-heart with. I'm not interested." With more force than is required, he shoves off from the bulkhead supporting him, and heads off down the gangway, no longer caring how loud his boots may echo off the metal, or how many pairs of eyes watch his retreat.

There are so many more important things for him to worry about, for him to figure out, there isn't space for him to be concerned about the crew's gossip.

Idle, or otherwise.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

When Shepard comes to, it is to the sound of steady beeping machines, to the whirr of air being circulated throughout the room, and to Mordin's now familiar babbling, vocal thought process. For several minutes, she is unable to do anything but listen to the myriad of noises, as her body seems to be unwilling to respond to even the most basic of commands as opening her eyes.

"Curious. Histamine levels elevated eighty percent above normal for humans. Indicative of allergic reaction. Possible use of biological weapon? No. Unlikely. White-blood cell counts also elevated. Infection days old, not a result of today's injuries." She listens to the sound of his fingers clacking at a console, followed by a hiss of breath. "Unexpected foreign tissue present. Levels diminishing. Probable contact two point five galactic days prior. Hypotheses include-"

"Ughhhh..." The grumble that escapes her mouth in no way shape or form resembles the words 'Shut it, will ya?' like she'd intended, but it gets the good professor's attention all the same.

"Ahh, Shepard! Good. You're awake."

Shepard's head rocks back and forth on the table, as she tries to dislodge the ether-soaked cotton balls she assumes have been shoved in her ears – there's no other explanation for why she feels like this. Her wounds weren't _that _bad. "Whuhdahelhappd?" Shepard tries to sit up, but finds her limbs as uncooperative as her vocal chords.

"Mmm. Sedation impaired speech process." Mordin's face hovering over Shepard comes in and out of focus, the small smile he is giving her translating into a grimace to her drugged state. Distantly, she feels two soft-skinned hands press down on her shoulders, forcing her to lay back down. She doesn't fight them very hard. "Try not to talk. Effects will wear off soon."

"Guhhh." The sound that comes out of her mouth isn't as garbled as everything else so far, so she guesses he must be right about the speech issues. And considering that her tongue feels about three sizes too large in her mouth, she can venture a guess as to why.

"Apologies for sedation. Wound to neck more severe than initial field observation had indicated. Exploding shrapnel." He shakes his head once. "Not good. Surgical removal and closure was necessary." She manages to get control of one of her hands enough to lift it up and scrap it across the bandage tightly pressed to her neck. "Reaction to sedation more severe than anticipated however."

She manages a snort. _No kidding. _She's had her fair-share of battle wounds. Hell, she's had enough for an entire battalion, and she's never had quite this reaction before. Then again, this is the first severe injury she's sustained since Cerebrus brought her back, maybe their cybernetics weren't as advanced as they liked to think.

Her mind is drifting off, back to the planet and the oh-so-dead body of the scientist they had been sent in to rescue – the Illusive Man is going to tan her hide for _that one_ for sure – and so it takes her a minute to realize that Mordin is still talking.

"...due to a combination of factors. However, a compromised immune system is most likely cause." If she didn't know better, she'd swear that he was giving her a look of annoyance. "Should have informed about illness, Shepard."

_Oh. Yeah. THAT. _She fumbles with her words for a moment, her tongue having shrunk some, but not yet returned to its normal size. Only one of them comes out in anything remotely resembling a known dialect. "Sowwy."

"Apology unnecessary, Shepard. Damage done, and..." He pings at his controls again, and she feels a liquidy rush into her body through the tubing attached to her arm. "There. An increased dosage of anti-histamines and anti-bacterials will help to alleviate symptoms. Reduce fever, and allow for body's systems to realign." She tries to lift her head again, but the wooziness is returning, and suddenly laying back again seems like a very good idea. "Rest for now. Will discuss *ahem* cause, once recovered."

Something about that statement makes her heart jump into her throat, but already she's losing the battle to keep her eyes open, and gives into the oblivion his fast acting drugs offer.

With the all over body-throb she is feeling, it's better than being awake at any rate.

~~~\/~~~

Shepard can't be certain how long she is out before she finally recovers from the torture Mordin Solus likes to claim is medicine, but she can tell that it is late when she reawakens. Likely well into the night-cycle on the ship. Mordin is still the only one present in the med-bay, and she wonders at the luck that has her always conscious when Chakwas is out of the room.

Considering the lecture that Mordin is attempting to give her, mere moments after ascertaining that she was well enough to be discharged, she figures that she must have pissed some deity off in a big way, to have luck this awful.

"Would like to offer...advice. Aware that mission is dangerous. Different species react differently to stress."

What other reason could there be for her being subjected to a lecture on _safe-sex_ of all things less than a minute after she has begun to yank her uniform on to cover her still aching body? The wounds on her hips – one's with a distinctly talon-shape to them – faded to nothing but ugly bruises, glaring at her in an obscene manner as she tugs the pants over them. She doesn't have to look at Mordin to know that he knows they are there.

It's obvious enough that he has come to his own conclusions as to how they got there.

Mordin coughs into his hand, meeting her eyes, as she tugs the zip up on her jacket, grateful for the layer of protection it offers – even if she doesn't want to think about why. She's never had a problem with her own nudity, partial or otherwise, before. Least of all in a medical setting.

"Sexual activity normal for both humans and turians-"

A sound escapes her, some hybrid between a bark of laughter and a sob of panic, she can't fathom the words coming out of his mouth. Advice? He wants to offer **advice**?_ Little late for that, Prof. _"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Shepard," he says, making a vague gesture towards her person. "Can advise – offer suggestions for future encounters." There is no mistaking the way that his too-large eyes dart down to her hips. She digs her teeth into her lip almost hard enough to draw blood to keep from screaming. "Help prevent further infection or tissue damage-"

A sharp pain at the front of her skull makes her wince, drawing her attention away from the rambling scientist, not that he notices. It's like an icepick poking at the thin membrane behind her ocular cavity, and she has to fight the insane urge to dig her fingernails into the socket and _pull _– expensive cybernetic implants be damned. Her hands move to massage her temples regardless, allowing her an excuse to look away. "Just leave it, Mordin."

There is a clucking noise that she guesses is his tongue whacking at the roof of his mouth. "No cause for embarrassment, Commander. Doctor-patient confidentiality guaranteed-"

_Embarrassment? _Shepard can't begin to imagine where the hell he is getting that from, since the emotions that she is currently experiencing have very little in common with embarrassment. Perhaps the look she is giving him doesn't translate properly to salarian, so she readjusts her glare and body language a bit, hoping it'll help get across what she simply can't vocalize.

The thought of even trying to put words to what happened, words to something that she is only just now – in the wake of her nearer-to-death experience than she would have liked – willing to even acknowledge _happened_ in the first place, is like trying to chug down a bucket of sand.

His diatribe pauses, and she feels relief at the silence, thinking maybe her silent plea worked. Thinking that maybe he gets it; gets that she doesn't want to talk, and that even if she _did, _that now is simply not the time. What with her still recovering from a _gunshot wound to the carotid_. The feeling is short-lived however, as he takes a quick breath and starts in on pamphlets and creams, and the tiny wire of patience that she has been balancing on for the last ten minutes finally snaps; her skin near-to vibrating as she wills herself not to go for his windpipe.

"Mordin!" His eyes widen fractionally at the heated shout of his name, but it has the intended effect, and he halts his speech, one hand paused over his omni-tool in mid-motion. "Leave. It. Alone."

"But, Shepard-" He might not be able to read her, but she can read him, and there is confusion laced with worry in his stance, in his voice, and that ramps the anger suffusing her body up several notches. Because he _still doesn't get it._

That knowledge feeds the maelstrom of emotions inside of her. All a spinning, confused mash-up, all in conflict with one another, that she has no idea how to even begin to deal with. Does she want him to get it? _Really?_ Does she want to deal with that right now.

Or ever?

The thought makes her body shudder.

"I don't need any pamphlets, or creams, or helpful words of advice." Her hands are clasped in fists by her side, and she can't stop the venom dripping from her voice as she speaks. While some part of her acknowledges that he doesn't deserve her anger, she finds that she doesn't care enough at the moment to bother with censoring herself. The ache in her skull has reached epic proportions, and she can barely think around it anymore. "There isn't going to be some _next time_ for me to be prepared for; so thanks for the concern, but drop it." She reaches up to rub at her eyes, a much more acceptable alternative to digging them out she supposes, and attempts to check her temper. "Please."

The look he gives her is uncertain, and it is clear that he wishes to pursue the issue further. She gives a momentary thought to how best to silence any other objections he may opt to voice – most of which would probably be a bad idea, seeing as how he is the only one capable of running those experiments he has set up, and damned if she wants to find out what happens if they are left unchecked – when he nods. All of her muscles relax when he does, but the calculating look that he gives her, head angled just enough to make her sympathize with the specimen's beneath the glass in his lab, causes them to tighten almost immediately again.

She can visualize the thoughts being processed through that genius brain of his, as he glances back over her person. Taking note of how she has unconsciously tucked her hands beneath her armpits, even as she tries to surreptitiously release them from the hold – too little, too late she knows. The whole situation not helped by her still too quick breathing that she can't seem to slow.

She can practically hear the cogs turning over in his head, letting each bit of information fall into place. And a litany of 'don't ask, don't ask, don't ask, don't ask, don't ask, please, please, _please_' races through her mind in time with the pounding of her heart.

And he gets it. He _gets _it. She can see the exact moment that it all falls into place in the way his eyes open a fraction more, and the way that his next breath halts during intake for a second.

But he also seems to get the message that she is projecting so loud and clear. Maybe he's partially telepathic and no one ever bothered to inform her, or maybe it's just that great, big ol' brain of his working overtime to tell him – finally – that now..._is not the time_.

But whatever the reason, he backs off. He backs off, and she can't help the audible sigh of relief that escapes her, the sound somewhat camouflaged by the hissing of the med-bay door as she tries to beat a hasty retreat.

She pauses, mid-step through the door, caught in a dual snare by Mordin's voice at her back, and Jack's unexpected gaze at her front – the latter is sitting, legs splayed, on the mess-hall table, a bottle dangling from her hands.

She tilts her head over her shoulder at the sound of Mordin calling her name, giving him half her attention as he hands her a med-pack that resembles a stim-shot. "For the pain. May help you sleep." She nods, but otherwise doesn't respond. "Will also need twice-daily bandage changes." He stops, mouth shutting with a snap, as he visibly alters his line of speech. "Come see either Chakwas or myself in morning."

From the corner of her eye, she sees Jack raise the bottle in a mock toast towards her, and Shepard nods again. Acknowledging both Mordin and the girl with the action, and feeling like one of those old-fashioned bobble-head toys that were all the rage with her N7 training unit. It's enough to get Mordin to back a step away, and she manages to pass through the doorway without further commentary from the salarian.

As the doors slide shut, she finds herself giving serious thought to having Zaeed put his field experience to the test by letting him redress her wound for her when she wakes. She figures at the very least, his bedside manner won't leave her feeling torn open and raw – like Mordin – or overly mothered, like Chakwas.

Neither option is very appealing to her right then.

And neither is having another talk with Jack. She has absolutely no clue what to say to the biotic staring her down, with what looks to be a knock-off brand of vodka in her hand, and still sober eyes. Nor does she have the energy to even try to pretend like she does. Out of the myriad members of her crew that she could have envisioned still being up (and waiting for her) at this hour, Jack would have been near to the bottom of that list.

Seems like lately the universe is dead set on making sure she has no idea what comes next.

Decision not to talk made, she heads in the hall and towards the elevator, the girl's voice bringing her up short. "Now that ain't polite. And here I was gonna offer you some. Then again, looks like you already got the good shit in hand." Jack gestures to the med-pack in Shepard's fist. "Wanna trade?"

Despite everything, the question throws Shepard off her guard enough to cause a near smile to light upon her lips. Her head is busy pounding out Beethoven's last symphony inside her skull, though, and she just wants to get to her room. "Better not. Think it's generally frowned upon when a commanding officer drugs her crew."

"Or maybe you just wanna keep it all to yourself."

"Well, like you said. This is the good stuff. Why the hell would I want to trade it for whatever swill you're carting around?" Why Shepard is still talking, when her entire body is beggin her to get moving, she hasn't a clue.

Jack shrugs a shoulder, "Yeah, well, probably a good idea that you hog it all anyway." She hops off the table and closes the distance between them a few feet. Her hard-ass demeanor overpowering her tiny stature. Making her seem larger than she is, and giving all the more weight to the heavy stare she levels at Shepard.

Normally, Shepard would respect the hell out of a stare like that, but right now she kind of hates it. "Yeah, and why is that?"

"Cause you look like twice-eaten varren shit, boss. Course, that's nothing new."

The words 'fuck off'' are on the tip of Shepard's tongue, but she manages to bite out a less hostile, though still acidic, reply. "Still hilarious, Jack. And original."

"Yeah, well, I try. Besides, I'm a little hurt." The girl makes an attempt at a pout that just looks _wrong _on her face. "You promised to invite me the next time you decided to get the hell kicked out of ya."

The memory of the promise, and what event had preceded it, makes Shepard cringe. Her eyes dart involuntarily toward the forward batteries. She does her best to hide the reflex, cutting herself off before she even catches a glimpse of the doors and the green light emanating from between. Judging by the narrowing of Jack's eyes, she's only partly successful; and she has to wonder at how much she is giving away.

"I'll be sure and hit you up next time. Promise."

With her neck torn to bits like it is, Shepard is forced to turn her whole body to watch as Jack starts to walk backwards towards the table. "Enjoy the meds, Shepard. Maybe they'll work better than the coffee. Might even clean up that little bullshit problem you've contracted."

Shepard's agitation is only trumped by her overwhelming exhaustion -despite the hours she most have spent unconscious on a med-bay cot, and so she leaves that one alone, and finally makes her way to the elevator doors, hitting the recall button.

Why the hell can't she ever catch a break, and walk into an empty room?

_Too many people on this damn ship, that's why._

At least, she thinks, there's one person she's managed to avoid of late. But that can't last forever...

The thought of him, and that unreadable gaze from the corner of the comm room, causes her abdomen to clench painfully and her next intake of air to get caught on its way from her throat to her lungs. She doesn't even realize how greedily she is holding onto it, until it sputters out of her in a cough when the elevator doors open; revealing the empty cart waiting to take her to her cabin.

A dripping sound jars her back, and she notices with not a small amount of derision, that she has snapped the med-pack in half, slicing into the skin of her palm. Blood mixing with its contents and leaking out through the fingers of her clenched hand.

_Fuck. _It's gonna be a long night without pain meds, but she'll be damned if she's going to go back to Mordin and ask for more.

She clambers into the cart, slumping against the interior, and letting her head fall back with a thud that coordinates beautifully with the drum solo inside her skull.

_Yeah, it's gonna be a damn long night._

~TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Spoilers:** For Garrus' loyalty mission in ME2 and the Shadow Broker dossiers. (No ME3 in here!)  
> **Author's Note**: So it's been...fifteen months since I last posted an update to this story. Anyone even still remember it? Anyone still care? For those of you that do, I am so very sorry for the wait. In case you can't tell, I hit one HELL of a writer's block on this chapter, and the story in general. Really, I lost my ability to write in the ME universe at all for awhile there. Slowly but surely, I am getting back into the swing of things. I hope. Many, many, **many** thanks to **silentstephi** for the beta. I was a nervous wreck about this chapter before she took a look at it, and her input has helped me bunches. (And saved you all from repeated comma splice horrors.) Only one more part after this! (A part which is half done at the moment, but I've learned to not make promises on the timing of delivery, so I'm just going to keep my fingers crossed at this point and attempt to get it finished as soon as possible.) Thank you to everyone who is still with me, and for all the wonderful feedback you've given me since I started this thing. It really has kept me going. You have no idea how much it helps.

Nothing in Alliance training - basic, N7, or otherwise - has prepared Shepard for the stench of melted flesh that wafts on the wind to be sucked into her lungs with every inhale. Or for the foul, bitter odor that emanates from the serpentine monster twitching in its final death throes a hundred meters off. Then again, nothing in her training has prepared her for anything that's happened today. Suddenly, the special forces emblem adorning her armor seems like a joke.

"_Commander Shepard?_"

A noise - a burbling, moist gurgle - echoes in the distance before fading into the wind. Shepard looks towards it. She looks, but she can't _see_. Dust swirls up around her, stinging her eyes as her hands grasp at the smooth metal hull she is pressed against, pulling herself along until her fingers curve around a jam and she can tug her broken body around the corner. She heaves a breath as she moves forward, useless lower limbs dragging behind her. A searing pain travels the distance from her hip, up and around her torso, where it cleaves too close to her heart for comfort - forcing her to stop her forward momentum for the moment.

"_Commander Shepard, Dr. Chakwas is requesting entry._"

She strains her ears for any other sounds, for any other signs of life. But there are none. If she's honest with herself, she knew that none would - but the disappointment leaves her feeling heavy and distorted. Her mind might know better... but she had hoped... Still, there is one life she may yet salvage from this awful mess, if only she can get her ass to move. Somewhere up ahead - to her left if memory serves - is the locking mechanism for the escape pod she is crawling against. The inside of the pod means _life_. The acidic burns tearing through her combat suit and biting into her flesh tell her that getting in there **now** would be a very good idea indeed.

"_I'm afraid that the Commander is not responding to my queries, Doctor."_

Her fingers fumble with the entry sequence. A single blaring sound denotes only failure. Snarling, she tears the gloves from her hands with chattering teeth, freeing blunt nails to dig into her eyes. A violent grind of the digits into the sensitive orbs - a desperate attempt to pry every last grain of sand from her ducts, clearing the way for a wave of cleansing tears. The pain of it is nothing compared to what else she has endured today, to what her entire_ team_ has suffered.

The only difference is that she is still alive to care.

"_I understand that, Doctor. But unfortunately, the Commander has terminated my main override controls. I am unable to proceed without her direct authorization._"

Finally, _finally_, the door gives way - sliding open to admit her entry. She face plants across the threshold, blood bursting through her newly broken nose as it acquaints itself with the cold metal grating. Absurd laughter breeches the silence of the pod, forcing a gulp of warm, copper flavored liquid down into her lungs. The laughter gives way to a fractured, salty sob.

"_Of course. Allowances in my sub-routines permit entry in the case of a medical emergency. _"

With a violent, twisted tug everything changes. Her legs are intact once more, no longer encased in melted flesh. Instead, she finds them tangled around something soft, smooth - unable to get traction. The throb at her nose has given way to a pounding at the base of her skull. Her lungs are clear. Hands, which moments ago had pressed into the smooth surface of an escape pod floor, are now digging into harsh-spun fabric with a stench worlds different, but not at all better, then the one she had previously been subjected to. A heavy heat presses down on her from behind, and with that recognition a sense of panic floods her. She gasps for air, pulling it in to shout out a word that she only recognizes as 'stop' the moment after it has passed her lips.

It takes her another moment to realize that the tangle by her feet is her clothes.

"_Security protocol five alpha six dash four has been overridden. Authorization code seven three point eight two, Chief Medical Officer Chakwas. Please enter at will, Doctor."_

Something both familiar and yet entirely alien is between her legs. Between her legs and _inside her_. Her mind, her soul, revolts against the invasion. The need to expel the object, _the male body_, from her own is deep and visceral. It claws against her veins and burns in her lungs. So she fights. Thrashes and bucks, trying to dislodge it - _him_ \- but still he remains. Pressing down and into her. A violent throb that causes pain soul deep, until she thinks she might crack.

And all she can think of, the only word that seems to be able to conjure itself within her brain as a crippling sense of betrayal freezes her in place is: 'why?'

"_Shepard, can you hear me? Your vitals have elevated to dangerous levels, and I'm afraid you'll reopen your wound. I'm going to need to administer a sedative."_

The weight holding her down pulls back. Slides away from her skin in a hot wave, leaving her flesh rubbed raw and cold. The relief she expects to feel once it was gone never comes. The weight may be gone, but she feels held down. Compressed into the ground, into herself. So she tries to move. Tries to lever herself up. To stand. She wants to stand. **Needs** to stand. But she can't make her limbs cooperate. It's as if her whole body has gone numb, laying lax upon the ground, unable to defend, unable to move. Unable to _flee._ Panic encases her as surely as the death she sees looming on the horizon. A blanket of black she feels she will never throw off. She shuts her eyes against the inevitability.

And suddenly she knows that this is wrong. This isn't how it happened.

Before...after...she was able to stand.

"_Shepard? Commander? ...Jane?"_

The scenery changes again. The carpet scraping at her cheek fades away until she is no longer lying face down, but floating in a sea of nothing. The burning corpse of the _Normandy_fading from view as she struggles to catch a breath. Thrashing in her hardsuit, and hands clasping at her collar; desperate to find relief, but knowing that there is none to be found. She lets go. Sighs out a final breath and lets her eyes roll back. Back until all she can see is the swirling scenery within her mind, the threads of her life unraveling around her. Watches them float by, listless and lost. Her eyes focus on one thin line. A memory masquerading as a sliver of light in what is fast becoming an unending canvas of dark. Something about it screams 'last chance' to her fractured mind. She reaches out, stretches nerveless fingers to catch hold of it before it falls away. Feels it slide through the digits, bringing with it a flash of clarity.

She wants to live.

She gasps for breath. Sucking it into greedy lungs. Recognizes that she is lying on her back, something soft and warm wrapping around her on all sides. She blinks, trying to clear the haze from her eyes and sees stars. Stars dotting an endless expanse of space through a thick pane of glass. Something brushes against her forehead and she finds herself turning towards the sensation. Kind eyes set in a lined face stare down at her. She peels dry lips apart, but has no idea what she even wants to say - though 'thanks' seems appropriate.

"Rest now, Shepard. We can talk later. I'll be here."

As the world around her fades once more she thinks that she doesn't have much choice. But for now, that's okay. She really would like to get some rest.

Preferably the kind absent of all dreams.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

There are five-hundred and seventy-nine joints in the paneling used within the main battery area. Or, at least, in the area of the main battery visible to Garrus from his bed. They are well hidden, almost invisible faults - but if you know where to look - and Garrus does - they are easy to find.

He's spent the last four and a half hours tracing over them with his eyes. Ticking off each one on his mental registry. Beside him on the cot, lies his visor. Slipped off with an unsteady hand some time between hours two and three; the names carved on the inside had demanded too much attention for him to focus on his chosen task of counting. The memories that they conjured too overwhelming to be ignored.

"_Yo, Archangel! You planning to join us anytime soon? Grub's getting cold, and these cards aren't gonna play themselves."_

"_Sorry, Monteague, not tonight. Sidonis has a bead on some intel that I need to follow up on. I know it'll be hard, but you'll just have to survive without my special brand of ass kicking for the evening."_

"_Yeah, yeah. You know, you keep coming up with excuses not to play, I'm gonna start thinking you've forgotten how."_

"_I'll remember you said that the next time I bleed you of all your creds."_

Still, it's not enough. There is no distance that he can put between now and then to help him block out the memories when he needs to. Wants to. He can never quite forget so many pairs of unblinking eyes staring up at him from bodies soaked in pools of blood. The blame shining in their gaze as bright as the reflection from the overhead lights.

"_Archangel! Come in! We're under attack. They, they got Ripper. I think Erash too. Oh, Goddess. Butler's down...They're, they're everywhe-"_

"_Sensat? Sensat! Damn it! Hold on. Just hold on. I'm on my way. Hold on."_

Though none of those dead stares even come close to the one live one that haunts him now. The anger - the _pain _\- in that memory is oppressive. It twines itself around his neck, a limp noose that threatens retribution, but never delivers.

_"Stay away from me, Vakarian."_

He wishes that it would.

Spirits know that he wishes he had the wherewithal to tug it tight himself. But it feels too late for that. Death by his own hand at this point would leave behind too many questions - questions Garrus never wants Shepard to have to field.

He's harmed her enough already as it is.

A blink of blue light by his side draws his attention back down to the damnable visor. Notification of a message received. Since leaving Omega, there are a limited number of people who have kept in contact with Garrus. Who have had the information available to be _able _to contact him. And now that Sidonis has been located, he's cut ties with all but one.

He lifts the visor into his hand, a talon tracing over the arch that brands the names of his former teammates. His _squad_. Remembers how he had added each one as his team had formed, with a foreign feeling that resembled hope boiling in his chest. Remembers how he wanted to keep their names close, so that he would never lose track of his purpose. Never forget what he was fighting for or _why_. Remembers how _proud _he'd been of each of them. Remembers when the realization struck that what had started out as a tribute to his success, had mutated into a memorial of his failures.

As his talons make the pass once again, he wonders idly if Shepard's name should be added in the place where Sidonis' once lived. Bile churns in his stomach at the thought. He doesn't want to fail her; has wanted the exact opposite of that since the moment they first met. The knowledge that it's too late because he already _has_ is hard to comprehend.

The fact that he has done something so much _worse _than fail her is almost impossible to fathom.

The light on his visor flashes once more, drawing him out of the familiar downward spiral before he can travel it too far, and brings him back to the present. Mail from his sister shouldn't fill him with dread. It should be a pleasant experience, in point of fact, but at this moment it feels like another obligation that he is in no way mentally prepared to handle. There's never any good news to be passed along. Speaking with her is another reminder of all the ways that he has screwed up his life - even if only by proxy.

He's never been what his father wanted. Never had as much patience, as much discipline as he should. But he has always _tried_. Spent his life trying so hard to be the kind of person his family wanted him to be. When that didn't work, he tried to be the kind of person that Shepard made him _think_ he could be. Though he's always fallen short of the mark, in the past he felt it was something that was within his grasp. Now he knows he'll never be able to climb high enough to reach it again. He has no idea how he could have fallen so far.

How did he _let_ himself fall so far?

So now in this quiet empty space between the day and night cycle, when the engines hum out a soft steady tune and no extraneous crew members yammer away at him with perfectly reasonable ship-related questions, he stares past the blinking light on his visor, through the joints of the paneling and into the mess that his life has become, and wonders if there is anything worth salvaging.

With a groan he levers himself up off of the cot, no longer able to handle the confining space of the battery, and the thoughts he has too much time to dwell on. He's desperate for a drink, but he'll settle for some food. Skipping dinner in favor of avoiding everyone on the ship seemed like a good idea earlier, but his empty insides are judging him for it now. Maybe with something in his stomach, he'll be able to sleep. It seems unlikely, but he can't stay here any longer. He's barely left the space since Shepard's failed mission on the Melile satellite, and that was a full day/night cycle ago.

A full day/night cycle during which the Commander has remained within her quarters under Doctor Chakwas' watch, or at least that's what the scuttlebutt onboard revealed to him the one time he ventured out into mess midday. (He might often detest the human need to gossip, but it comes in handy when he wants information, but doesn't want to actually _speak _to anyone in order to obtain it.)

At first, he wondered why they'd even released her from the med-bay if she still needed that kind of care. Wondered and worried. Didn't like not being able to set eyes on her, to assure himself that she was still amongst the living, no matter how much he knew he no longer had the right to so much as breathe the same air as her.

It took him less than a minute to realize that spying eyes were likely _exactly _the reason she'd gone to her quarters. No way would she willingly have stayed lying prone in full view of her crew while she recovered. Concerned stares from them wouldn't do her a damn bit of good when she'd probably be worried that it would damage crew morale.

Commander Jane Shepard, always putting everyone else's needs before her own.

A chill settles over him as he thinks on it, thinks on what he's done and about what a detestable bastard it makes him. There's simply no way to ever make it right.

He slips the visor back on over his eye; a part of him might want to be able to forget everything that the names burned into it represent, but he knows that as long as he's living, it's not something he'll ever be free from. Whether he's wearing the visor or not. And no matter how late it is, he's not about to wander the Normandy without the thing on. He'd sooner walk out of the main battery naked. He'd probably get less stares that way. With a flick of his eye, he sends Solana's message into a bin to be dealt with later. It's late enough now that he figures most everyone but the night crew will be asleep, and the mess hall should be a fairly safe place.

An assumption that is proven wrong almost immediately as he enters it, and sees Tali slumped at the table nursing a drink through a straw. She doesn't glance up, so he moves to the cabinets, shuffling through them for something edible, and hoping that she doesn't decide to speak.

Of course since he has no luck at all anymore, she does.

"You skipped dinner again."

His movements falter slightly, one of the cabinet doors clipping his knuckles, but he catches himself before she notices. Or at least, he hopes that he does. "Mmm, yeah. Had a lot of work that needed to get done. Those guns won't calibrate themselves."

"So you keep saying. I think Gardner stockpiled some soup for us on the bottom shelf in the fridge, if you're hungry."

"Oh, thanks." He checks the shelf, and sure enough, by the back corner there's a tub with a large 'X' scrawled on the side. Some sort of dextro-surprise no doubt.

He grabs the tub and a utensil, debating how rude it would be to leave without another word. Less than five minutes since he left it and he's already itching to flee back to the safety of the battery. But, he takes in the slump of Tali's shoulders, and the way that she is staring down at the table in front of her, and decides that at the very least, he should apologize for interrupting her solitude. Just because his life is falling apart at the seams, doesn't mean everyone else's is perfect. "Sorry for intruding. I didn't think anyone would still be up. I'll go."

"No! Don't...I mean, you can stay - if you want. I, I wouldn't mind the company."

"Ahhh, hmm. Okay." He doesn't really _want _to keep her company right now, doesn't want to keep anyone company, but one glance up from his tub to the table lets him see how her hands are fidgeting with the straw in her drink. Twisting it between them until he can't imagine the thing being useful for her purposes. The motions make her look so very, very _young._And thought it is a distinctly 'Tali' gesture to make, it reminds him so much of his sister in that moment that his heart hurts. So despite his better judgement, he settles on the bench across from her and asks: "You alright?"

She jumps in her seat, her shoulders going stiff. The pitch of her voice rising with every syllable she speaks. "What? Why would you ask that? Of course I am. What could possibly make you think that something was wrong? So what if it's 0300 Zulu and I'm still wide awake and sitting by myself. Drinking my third protein smoothie. It's not like there's anyth-"

"Tali? You're rambling. Also, I think that straw is done for. Whatever it did to offend you, it's paid for its crimes."

She glances at the destroyed object in her grasp, letting out a nervous sounding chuckle, and dropping it onto the table. "Heh, I guess it has."

For a moment, Garrus thinks that the small joke might be all that was needed, but instead she slumps even further forward, and Garrus sighs. He knows that there is no getting out of this one with any sort of grace. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I - I checked in with Dr. Chakwas earlier, she wouldn't give me any details, but she thought that Shepard would be ready for duty in a couple of days. And Joker says that we're still on track to meet up with the flotilla by the end of the week."

At the mention of Shepard, Garrus feels his whole body tighten up, a spring coiled to the point of snapping. But then she mentions the flotilla, and something about how she says it: the resignation, the tremor in her voice, subdues his tension a bit. It's difficult, but he needs to remember that not everything is about him. Aside from Shepard, Tali's the only person on the ship that he gives a damn about. "So what's the problem?"

"I'm...nervous, I guess. About facing the Admiralty board."

"Ahh." He thinks back to before he got word on Sidonis. About Shepard telling him how they were heading to the flotilla to handle something for Tali once they were done at the Citadel. He can recall now how she'd given him all the pertinent details at the time, but none of it had registered. Too focused on his own problems to care about the possible exile of his friend.

_Spirits_, he is such a bastard. Thankfully, Shepard isn't. He knows that she would do anything for her crew, for her friends, and _has_. She's done so much to help them all that it's almost laughable that Tali is worried. Damn it all, but she even stood in front of his scope to try and stop him from making a mistake.

The thought makes the soup he's been slowly eating curdle in his stomach. _A mistake? Is that what it would have been?_ He blinks furiously against the unwanted mental images. Sidonis in his crosshairs. Shepard blocking the way. A half-dressed asari being tossed to the ground. And Shepard... he shakes himself. Fingers tightening on the spoon until he can feel it bend.

He can't deal with this now, not while Tali is looking to him for reassurance. Something he feels woefully unprepared to provide, but that is needed all the same. He hates how scratchy and uneven his voice sounds when he speaks. How it betrays how weak he feels. How exhausted. "I don't think you need to worry, Tali. You know that Shepard will do anything to help."

"I know that! _Keelah_, you think I don't know that? But Shepard can't fix everything, Garrus. They're calling me a traitor. A traitor! Just for sending in some parts..." She sighs then, one hand reaching up to cradle the side of her skull. Idly, he wonders if it ever gets frustrating having to wear a helmet all the time. Wonders if maybe he should give it a try, if only so that he can avoid looking at himself in the mirror every day. "I mean, what if the Admirals are right? What if I _did_ do something worthy of exile?"

His mandibles flare wide at that, the uncertainty in her voice catching him more off guard than the question. "Did you?"

"I...I don't know. I don't think I did. At least, not intentionally."

"Then you've got nothing to worry about. Whatever's going on, Shepard will help you fix it...it's, it's what she does." He swallows down the nausea threatening to overtake him, and pushes away the remainder of his soup. Hunger the last thing he's feeling at the moment.

"Yeah, I guess it is, isn't it?" Garrus thinks that she sounds better, her posture seems to indicate that she does, so he nods and moves to dispose of the leftover food. Wanting to get out of there while he can.

He hesitates before heading back towards the battery, seeing that she's still sitting at the table, drink forgotten in her hand, and decides to adhere to at least one more rule of social etiquette before running away. "Goodnight, Tali. Try and get some sleep."

"Goodnight, Garrus. Thanks. And...whatever is going on between you and Shepard. Give it some time, I'm sure it'll work itself out."

He feels his eyes go wide, and his mandibles flair out before he can stop himself. Shock racing through him at her words. Shock followed closely by fear, and overlayed by shame. The earlier hint of nausea flaring back to life. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not _stupid_, Garrus. Do you think I can't tell that something has been off between you two since we left the Citadel? You've barely left the batteries, and she's running off on missions without you? An idiot could see you two are fighting."

"Uhh..."

"All I'm saying is that whatever happened, just give it some time. You've been friends for too long to let just anything get in the way."

He coughs out a bitter laugh. "Yeah. Right." _You wouldn't be saying that if you knew what I did. You'd be introducing me to your shotgun. And I'd deserve it. _His head feels heavy, and he has to close his eyes to keep the dizziness from overwhelming him. Knows with every fiber of his being that there is no recovering from this. Knows that whatever friendship Shepard and him may have once had, he has murdered it as surely as he didn't murder Sidonis.

And he has no one to blame but himself.

"I know I am. Now go to bed. You look like you're about to fall over."

He jerks his hand away from the bulkhead where he'd unconsciously braced his weight in an effort not to let his knees buckle after she spoke. Quickly fisting his hand so that she can't see how it shakes he gives her a tight nod before turning on his heel and scurrying towards the battery, all care for societal propriety gone. He needs to get out of there.

Needs to be alone with his thoughts - with his crimes - so he can once again spend some time contemplating _why_ he shouldn't better acquaint himself with one of the ship's airlocks.

Because he's having a hard time remembering right now.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

The first thing that Shepard notices is that her head no longer hurts. The next is that neither does the wound on her neck - though the pressure from the bandage applied to it is steady. Breathing seems easier than before, though when she begins to push herself into a sitting position, the overall weakness of her body makes itself known.

She doesn't like it.

Her eyes slide shut as she vows to get the hell up. With only a minor struggle she manages to prop herself up against the backboard of her bed.

Which is precisely when she notices that Chakwas is sitting - one leg crossed over the other - at the desk, her gaze intent as it focuses on Shepard.

Shepard thinks that she should be angry that the doctor has invaded her quarters without asking, Invaded, and she realizes, _drugged her, _but all she can manage to feel through her desensitized system is a mild flicker of annoyance. Whatever the Doctor gave her, must have been good. She has the inane thought that Jack will be pissed that she didn't share. Or possibly pissed that Chakwas drugged her without permission. The biotic certainly has a well-founded sense of personal freedom. Something that Shepard can readily appreciate.

Her throat is parched, and her voice, when she speaks, is husky - like it's been months since it was last used, instead of hours. "Breaking and entering now, Doc?"

The doctor doesn't smile, but warmth fills her face. The sight of it eases something in Shepard, and her anger ebbs despite herself. "Just checking on my patient."

Shepard snorts, one hand reaching up to scratch at the tangled mop on top of her head. The urge to shower, to wash away the debris from the mission, from the surgery, from life in general, is strong. Unfortunately it'll have to wait until Shepard is at least partially mobile. And preferably, alone. "You couldn't have knocked first?"

"I did. You didn't answer. EDI was kind enough to assist."

"Did she, now? Remind me to thank her properly the next time I visit the medical bay. Always wondered what was behind that AI Core door."

The perpetually present AI pops up into existence near the cabin's entrance, the glow of her orb casting the dimly lit room in a flood of blue. "Commander Shepard, I highly recommend against -"

"EDI, that was a joke."

The AI orb flickers briefly prior to answering, leaving Shepard with the impression that she wasn't convinced. Not that Shepard cares all that much. She can't deal both with an omnipresent AI and Chakwas at the moment. One is more than her frayed focus can handle. "Understood, Commander. Logging out."

"So, tell me Doc, did you break into my room solely to drug me, or was that an off-the-cuff decision?"

Shepard watches as the Doctor grabs a cup from the table top, and moves to the bathroom filling it with water from the sink. She accepts the cup gratefully from the Doctor, too thirsty and limbs still too heavy to protest being waited on. Even if she hates it. "As I said, Commander, I came here to check on my patient. That includes administering sedatives as necessary. And trust me, you needed it."

Shepard scoffs. Or at least, tries to. The sound that comes out of her is more reminiscent of an annoyed cat. "Because I was dreaming?"

"Dreaming? Is that what you're calling it these days? Normally, I wouldn't call anything that is accompanied by a fever, increased blood pressure, shouting _or_ a racing pulse _just_ a dream."

Shepard doesn't have a good response to that, the lingering images that plagued her mind earlier could hardly be classified as pleasant, that's for certain. She sighs, letting her head fall back onto the pillow, giving herself a moment to fully examine the inside of her eyelids. Maybe if she's lucky, she'll find the answers to all of her problems written there.

"All right. You've checked on me. Gave me some good drugs by the feel of it. And I appreciate that, I do. But I reek like dead pyjak, so if you don't mind, I'd like to take a shower."

She expects a laugh - a snort at the very least - but the only sounds that reach her ears are those from the fish tank. She feels a shift in the world as a weight settles at the foot of her bed. With great reluctance, she peels open her eyes, meeting Chakwas' appraising gaze.

"You know, you're quite an intriguing case, Shepard."

"Oh?"

"Yes. With all of the enhancements that Cerberus gave you prior to waking from your... coma, and all of the work that you've had done since, your immune system is second to none. Well beyond the capabilities of any normal human. At this point, your system _should_ be able to flush itself of the vast majority of ailments. A fact that has only been solidified the more that I have examined your charts. Physiologically, there is no reason for you to still be sick - no matter what bacterium you may have encountered, or wounds that you have suffered. No matter what you may have had an...allergic reaction to."

Shepard's breath catches in her throat, held there by a heart that refuses to beat for a moment. _She knows_. The urge to throttle Mordin rises fast. The only thing stopping her from rushing to the lab to show her appreciation is the fact that she still doesn't have use of her legs. Damn sedatives.

"Which leads me to the conclusion that what we are dealing with here, is at least in part, psychological in nature."

Shepard does a double take. Feeling a phantom headache skirting at the edges of her mind. "You think I'm a head case?"

"Now don't go putting words into my mouth, Commander."

"I'm sorry, is there another way that I should have taken that? Have you forgotten that I was shot, Doc? Doesn't make for a very healthy person. Just ask Zaeed."

"No, I haven't, Shepard. But we both know that the cause of your illness came first, don't we?" The lines around Chakwas' eyes soften along with her voice. "That your immune system - and your mental faculties - were already compromised when you went on that mission. A fact that you failed to divulge prior to your departure."

"I don't have _time_ to be sick, Doctor. In case you haven't noticed, we're on a bit of a time-crunch here."

"In point of fact, I _have_ noticed. Which is why it is even more interesting that as yet, you haven't inquired as to how long your illness has kept you unconscious."

In a move that Shepard immediately regrets, she shoots straight up in the bed. But she can't find room to care about the dizziness around the rising panic. "What? How long have I been out, Doctor?"

She must look as crazed as she feels, judging by how wide Chakwas' eyes become, before settling into their normal shape. She lifts her hand towards Shepard in what Shepard assumes must be meant as a gesture encouraging her to lay the hell back down. Not that Shepard has any intention of heeding that particular request. Not until she has some answers at least.

"Please, relax, Commander. I should have realized how much a statement like that might worry you. You've only be resting for a little over 30 hours. Your body was under a high level of stress, and it needed time to cope with the damage. I've been monitoring your progress, and I believe that once the sedative has fully worn off, you should see significant improvement in your status. And I can assure you that the Collectors are still a threat in need of your attention. You haven't slept through _that_."

The bubble of fear pops, and Shepard lets out a scratchy laugh. "Oh good, wouldn't want anyone else to go swanning off to save the galaxy without me. So, what? You've been watching me sleep this whole time?"

"More or less."

"That's a little creepy, Doc."

"Well, I _have _had other duties to tend to from time to time. But I doubted that you would have appreciated anyone else checking on you while you recovered. Or..." And Shepard doesn't miss the quick flicker of unease in Chakwas' gaze. "...tending to your wounds. Mordin expressed your - ahem - reluctance to take any of the medication he had prepared for you beyond the pain meds. Considering the increased chance for reinfection while you were in recovery, I thought it best if you were under regular surveillance."

Shepard holds the good Doctor's gaze for several seconds. Seeing nothing there but patience and concern she gives in and slumps back into the comfort of her pillow. Wonders for a minute how much Mordin told Chakwas. It takes her all of three seconds to decide that there was no way he'd keep quiet about the extent of her wounds, or how he determined she acquired them. Or why, her immune system was compromised in the first place. "So much for doctor-patient confidentiality." She whispers it beneath her breath, but when she glances back at the Doctor, she can tell that her mutterings have been heard all the same. The stiffening of the other woman's posture and bite in her voice all give off the air of slight offense.

"Pardon me; I didn't realize that my position as your Doctor had been usurped at any point."

"That's not-"

"While I respect Professor Solus immensely, and am exceedingly thankful to him for providing me the support that I need on a ship of this size - seeing as how Cerberus didn't deign to provide me with even a single nursing staff member - he is **not **the one in charge of the medical facilities on board this ship.

"And beyond that, you can rest assured that anything you discussed in confidence with the man has remained that way." Both of Chakwas' brows rise towards her hairline, her facial expression contorting to something almost comical. "Despite my gray hair, my ability to read a medical report and determine the probable cause of an injury or illness is as sharp as it ever was. And, insults to me aside, Commander, while I commend you on your acting ability, I don't think you're giving your crew nearly enough credit."

Something stone-heavy and with the texture of inevitability sinks in Shepard's gut. First Jack, then Mordin and now Chakwas. It's a good bet that EDI knows too. Damn AI can see everything on board after all. How long before the whole damn crew figures it out? And how much longer before they connect the dots leading ever so bluntly in the direction of the main batteries?

The thought makes Shepard's insides seize up.

She swallows past the feeling, "Meaning?"

"Meaning, that they are a competent, observant, and intelligent group. Fully capable of discerning when their commanding officer is not behaving normally." Shepard wants to turn her eyes from the good doctor, but finds the other woman's gaze holding her as surely as shackles. "And that they care."

_Care._ At the word, Shepard releases a long, slow breath. Finally finding the will to turn away, letting her head fall back against the cushion holding her up. Never in a million years did she think she'd be having such a serious conversation, _while lying in bed_, but as her legs have yet to recover from Chakwas' method of 'caring' there isn't a whole lot she can do about the situation.

Shepard doesn't look to the doctor when she speaks, unwilling to get caught in that maternal net again. The memory of Jack sitting on a dark mess hall table - bottle dangling in her hands - fresh in her mind. "I know they do," she says past a swallow of nerves. Her voice too soft for her own liking. "Don't think I don't know that they do. But, it doesn't matter. I'm Commander Shepard. Savior of the Citadel, rogue Spectre, and the only damn person alive with prothean data swimming inside their head. And there's a war I need to win. Every single life in the galaxy depends on it. And I can't do what needs to be done if my crew doesn't believe in my abilities one hundred percent. So I can't afford to burden them with my issues, Doctor."

"And nearly getting yourself killed on a mission is a more acceptable alternative?" Chakwas shakes her head. Disbelief, disappointment or something similar covers her like a shroud. Shepard watches Chakwas take a deep breath, her own chest tightening at what such an action implies. Chakwas lets the air out slowly and Shepard has to struggle with the fight or flight response her instincts initiate at the action. The effort is not made any easier by the fact that she's bedridden at the moment.

"I'm not going to pry, Commander, no matter how much I may want to. I can understand if you need to deal with things at your own pace. But you should know that you aren't alone. I'm here if you want to talk. You don't always have to handle everything by yourself, Shepard."

The words: 'wanna see me try' are on the tip of Shepard's tongue. The taste of blood is bitter in her mouth as she forces them to remain where they lay.

"Also, may I remind you that while Cerberus may have cut costs on the nursing staff, they _did _see fit to employ a ship's psychologist?"

It takes Shepard a few moments to mentally review the dossiers of her entire crew before she comes to the one that Chakwas must be referring to, and barks out a laugh. "Chambers? Are you seriously suggesting that I talk with my Yeomen about this?"

"I am merely pointing out that the option is there."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Commander – _Jane_ – she is more than just your Yeoman, she is a fully qualified psychologist. One that graduated at the top of her class, with multiple accolades. She has a surprisingly impressive background."

Shepard snorts. "You're joking."

"I assure you that I'm not. Her methods may appear…unorthodox to some, but it is quite an effective method of creating an air of approachability."

Shepard thinks about all of the times she has seen the Yeoman bending over the counter in the mess hall, talking with Gardner, or hanging out down in engineering, giggling with Donnelly and Gabby. Recalls the time she saw her sitting with Matthews in the crew quarters. One hand on his shoulder and speaking in dulcet tones.

Then she thinks about all of the damn email messages that she _knows _the Yeoman read first. Like she actually needs someone to tell her when she has a message? Her omni-tool does that fine on its own. "Yeah, well, she's also Cerberus. I'd just as soon have a heart-to-heart with her as I would with our illusive employer. If I'm gonna shoot myself in the foot, might as well cut out the middleman. "

Finally Chakwas laughs a little. The sound is a pleasant noise in Shepard's ear. "I can understand your reluctance, Commander. But...think about it. You said it yourself, we have a war to win, and you - and your crew - need you at _be _at one hundred percent, not pretend that you are. Sometimes that means taking the time to take care of yourself. Please. Think about it."

Shepard nods. Though in the privacy of her own thoughts she thinks that she hasn't been at one hundred percent in years, and somehow doubt that she'll ever be fully there again. Once she'd thought that maybe she could be. Had quietly decided that maybe Cerberus had done her one hell of a favor by giving her a clean slate. A clean slate that she's managed to royally fuck up and scar in just a few short 's pissed at herself for ever thinking it was possible and has no intention on every make the same mistake again.

But, to her surprise, the Doctor's suggestion is all that Shepard can think about for the next several hours, long after Chakwas has left, and the feeling has returned to her legs. She drags herself into her bathroom for that much needed shower with the request still bouncing around in her head. It remains there, even once she is fully clothed and heading towards the elevator, intent to show her face to her crew so that they know that she isn't dead.

Well into the night, it is still _all_ she can think about.

~TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: **This piece references **NON-CON** events in the past, and as such may be triggering for some. Please bear that in mind.  
> **Author's Note**: It’s been more than two years since I last updated this thing (I’m sorry), and holy hell, it’s done. It’s finally, FINALLY done. While I always planned to finish this thing, I honestly never thought it would take 4+ YEARS to complete (it’s not even very long!). But this story has been very difficult to write, and I felt like the subject matter deserved to be treated with respect, so that meant not rushing through it no matter how strong the urge was. A HUGE, GIANT THANK YOU to **phdfan** for beta-reading this chapter, and providing hand-holding. I really needed it!! To all who have stuck with me through this, I want to say THANK YOU. Every single bit of feedback (from favorites to bookmarks to kudos to comments to pleas for me to just finish it already!) has meant a lot to me, and has kept me motivated at times when I just wanted to give up on the whole thing. Consider this a dedication to all of my readers, because without your support, I’m honestly not sure this fic ever would have reached completion. So thanks, and I truly hope the end was worth the wait.

When Shepard disembarks from the _Normandy_ to meet with the Admiralty board, Tali and Krios in tow, Garrus doesn't bother to hack into the comm systems to follow the play-by-play. The thought of playing the silent observer on this particular mission too unpalatable for him to stomach, what with his conversation with Tali from earlier that week still stuck like a rock in his gullet: '_All I'm saying is that whatever happened, just give it some time. You've been friends for too long to let just anything get in the way._'

He's had a hell of a time keeping food down since that night. Not that he has much of an appetite at all, but it's worsened in recent days. Now that he recognizes that the horrendous betrayal of trust he perpetrated extends beyond Shepard. Now that he sees that it colors every relationship he has in swaths of guilty red. Lying to Tali - by omission if nothing else - is chipping away at what is left of his sanity. He's certain that whatever is left of him when all is said and done will be nigh unrecognizable.

He's not sure that's a bad thing.

Part of him is desperate to confess his crimes, to lay his sins out there so that _someone_ can judge him and put him out of his misery. But then he thinks: would that do her more harm than good? Or would it just paint a picture of the Commander for the crew that they could never unsee, that she could never shake? No. His confession will do nothing to help her, not unless she demands it. In which case, she can have it, along with any other punishment she chooses.

He can give her that much, at least.

So as long as she is avoiding him, he will do what he can to make things easier on her. Including keeping his mouth shut.

Instead of engaging in the fine art of audio voyeurism, he spends the time cataloging the stores of weapon mods and ammo down in the cargo hold, coming to the disturbing conclusion that they are running short on almost everything. If they were to enter into a fight at this stage, they'd sustain heavy losses. And that's not acceptable.

He compiles a list of their needs, based on both previous requisitions and on his own personal preferences and observations. (Why do they even _have_ polonium rounds anymore? They don't even have any guns that can _use_ the things...) For almost three hours, his entire existence is narrowed down to a five by five radius around his person, and the only things that enter it are datapads and gear. It feels good, being out of the battery, being distracted - being _useful_. When he's done, he files a report with Lawson remotely, and hits the showers.

He makes quick work of cleaning up, mentally noting how much tighter his hide is where it clings to his bones, how much easier it is to scrub away bits of desiccated flesh to be swept away with the waste water for recycling. Though it has been months since he last heard her voice, Garrus can imagine the sound of his mother's admonishment at his poor nutrition with ease.

The thought of her, healthy and alert, and scolding him like she did when he was a child, intensifies the familiar empty feeling in his gut. That doesn't stop him from bypassing Gardner and the others gathered in the mess for dinner and heading straight for the battery when he's finished, however. By now, no one even looks twice at him for skipping a meal.

When the doors swish open some time later to admit Tali, he's crouched down, one arm elbow deep under the console maneuvering the wires so that he can complete an overdue upgrade. He holds his other arm out at face level with his omni-tool projecting a rotating graphic of the schematics for him to follow.

From the corner of his eye, he sees her move far enough into the room to allow the doors to seal shut behind her, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she lifts a hand towards her mask, scratching at the hood just behind it. Her arm drops back to her side with a sigh as she moves towards the stacks of cargo in the corner, hands flitting aimlessly over them. He might not be able to see her face through the mask, but her body language projects her state of mind well enough that he doesn't need to.

He lets the wires go, and slides out from under the console, going vertical on the side of it opposite Tali. The low wall that it makes between the two of them offers a strange sort of comfort. Her being here...it doesn't really tell him anything. Whether she was exiled or pardoned. But for the first time in too long, Garrus feels a little spike of hope. A hope that something has finally gone _right_. "How'd it go?"

"They dropped the charges against me. I - I haven't been exiled."

The relief that blooms in Garrus' chest at the announcement catches him by surprise. The smile that flares the mandibles of his damaged face the first one he can recall in weeks. "That's fantastic, Tali."

"And it's all thanks to Shepard. She was, she was _amazing_, Garrus. The things she said to the Admiralty Board - you wouldn't believe...Well, maybe you would." Her voice pitches higher at the end, an indication of a smile fighting through the disbelief. "You know how she is. But, still, to hear her say those things? About _me_? You should have been there, Garrus..." She shakes her head once, the bright spots that mark her eyes behind the mask dimming out on an exhale as she leans back against the bulkhead.

There's nothing he can say to that, so he chooses to ignore it altogether, instead focusing on the unspoken. It's easier not having to think about _why_ he wasn't there. "You know, I'd think you'd be more excited. If ever there was a time to celebrate, not being exiled seems like one of them, _Tali'Zorah vas Neema_."

"Actually, It's Tali'Zorah vas Normandy now." There is obvious pride in the inflection of her speech, overlaying the still present aura of sadness, and though he knows he should be happy for her, the statement hits him like a punch to the gut. Never has an expression of loyalty been so easily summed up in a name. And Tali deserves it, she's _earned_ it. She belongs here.

He doesn't.

He forces himself to take a breath, to focus on the conversation at hand, and not fall into that bleak inner turmoil that he's spent so much time dwelling in lately. The closest thing he has left to a friend is standing in front of him, and she's hurting. This isn't about _him_. "Then what...?"

"It's...my father... _Keelah_, my father's _dead_. Garrus. He's _dead_." The last word spills out of her on a choked sounding sob, and then the rest follows. A brittle account of everything that happened aboard the Flotilla, everything that they had uncovered. About her father, about the geth. And ending with a recount of Shepard's verbal smackdown of the Admiralty Board.

Her enthusiasm for the retelling grows towards the end to such a degree that it's infectious. He gets caught up in the haze of her excitement as she moves from leaning on the bulkhead to pacing the small space to slumped against the crates - grief etched in her frame as she muffles a sob, glossing over the discovery of her father's body, and his final message - to vibrating with poorly suppressed glee as she does a somewhat passable impression of Shepard shouting 'This is a sham!' complete with finger pointing and jabbing. Her performance brings a snort of laughter out of him, the picture that she paints clear as a vid-feed in his head.

It isn't until Tali lays a gentle hand on his arm that he realizes that, at some point, he crossed over from behind the console to join her on the side nearest the door. The unexpected touch causes his body to tense, a subtle enough flinch that she either doesn't notice, or is kind enough to ignore. "Thank you, Garrus." She gives his forearm a small squeeze, before dropping her hand and stepping back, the doors of the battery opening at her approach. He hopes that the relief he feels at the added distance isn't written all over his face. Though knowing his luck...

"For what? You may not have noticed, but while you were purging a ship full of live geth and fighting to prove your loyalty to your people, I was hanging around here taking inventory. Really not all that impressive in comparison."

"For listening. I - I needed that."

He shuffles back and forth on his feet, lifting a hand to scratch idly at the bandage covering half his face. "Uh, hmm, of course. Anytime." It's the sort of empty platitude that people pass back and forth to each other all the time. The sort that he is guilty of having served up on occasions too numerous to count. The odd thing is, this time, it's not empty. He actually _means_ it.

He doesn't know if he has what it takes to be anyone's friend anymore, knows with even more certainty that he doesn't deserve to be one, but even so, he finds that he wants to _try_.

~~~\/~~~

Early into the morning shift cycle three days after they leave the Flotilla, Garrus gets another visitor to his corner of the ship. But instead of the almost-welcome sight of Tali, this time it's Operative Taylor poking his head through the battery doors, half invading the space that Garrus has always thought of as _his_. The Cerberus employee's uninvited presence - as unobtrusive though it may be - grates on Garrus, but he lets it go, knowing that he has no real claim to anything on the _Normandy_. Not anymore.

"Vakarian. Sorry for interrupting, but your intercom's switched off." Garrus grunts, too busy with the console in front of him to bother pointing out that _yes_. He _knows_. And that it was done intentionally so as to avoid any such interruptions. Or even to hammer home the fact that if it was truly important, Taylor could have had EDI override his request, thereby saving himself the trip from the armory, and Garrus the nuisance of his presence.

"Just wanted to inform you that we'll be docking on Omega in twenty. Better suit up and meet us in the hangar in fifteen."

Garrus pauses in the middle of his work, one hand hovering over the firing algorithm he was about to initiate; thankful that the unexpected statement didn't catch him so far off-guard that he slipped in his entry of the digits. His heart thumps faster in his chest at the implications of Taylor's casual statement. Shepard's ordering him off the ship? At _Omega_? Garrus had known they we approaching the lawless station, but he hadn't thought...though he should have.

_Shit. _

Adrenaline spikes through his system, the taste of his own fear sour on his tongue. Whatever Shepard's decided, he'll accept. And while he's not one for poetry, even he can see the beautiful symmetry of her leaving him in the same place that she rescued him so many weeks ago.

It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep his voice even when he speaks. Not that Taylor would be able to pick up on the subtleties of turian subharmonics, but that's beside the point. "A mission?"

Taylor snorts, rocking back once on his heels before falling into an at-ease position that Garrus thinks is incongruous with the Cerberus uniform he wears. "I wish. I take it you didn't get the memo?" Garrus shakes his head once while dropping his hand back to the console to save his work. If he's expected to be off the ship when they dock, then he's not going to have time to finish the simulation he's prepared. Best not to try and rush it.

Besides, EDI is more than capable of picking up where he left off, should he not return to the _Normandy_.

"Probably because you have your comm turned off. You put in a lengthy requisition order, right? Well the Commander's tapped you, Krios, and me to negotiate the acquisition of a chunk of those requests on your former stomping grounds. Guess she figures you'd be best suited to get us decent prices, given your contacts."

"Shepard's not going?"

Taylor shakes his head. "Nah. Samara got a lead on that daughter of hers. Turns out she's been holed up on Omega for awhile now. Shepard's helping to track her down, so we get left with the shopping. Not exactly my idea of a good time, but her ship, her call."

"Right."

"The hangar in fifteen?"

Garrus nods his head once. "I'll be there."

~~~\/~~~

Stepping off the Normandy into the dismal port of Omega thickens the air in Garrus' lungs, the tempo of his heart outpacing his breath until he feels choked and lightheaded. His vision darkens at the edges, little bright spots of light popping in his line of sight. It takes him a moment to collect himself, head drooped down towards his collar, and one hand pressed to his thigh in an effort to help him stay mobile. Taylor doesn't notice, too busy accessing his omni-tool for the list of goods they need to collect, but when Garrus looks up, Krios' eyes are trained on him.

It's no less disturbing a sensation this time than any of the other times. But he buries it down with all of the other less than pleasant emotions he feels every moment of every day, and moves past the drell and the human to the railing at the far end of the port. He clenches the metal in his hands and looks down over the stacked rings of the station. Each one, he knows, populated with people more desperate - more lost - than him.

People he had once hoped to save.

People he's failed.

Is he even capable of doing anything else?

With a flex of his talons against the railing, he pushes his body back a step and turns back to his companions, making a show of accessing his omni-tool in an effort to avoid direct eye-contact for as long as possible. Best to just get this over with, so that he can he can get back to sequestering himself in the battery as soon as possible. "What's on the list?"

"The engineering staff put in a request for an upgraded set of power couplings, and then there's the requisition order that you placed for just about every type of ammo currently in production." The subtle rebuke is accompanied by an upturn of Taylor's lips that Garrus takes as amusement. "We've also been asked to keep an eye out for a new interface module for the Kodiak's navigation system, along with a selection of other items the crew and squad has asked for, and that the Commander has approved. And as always, Gardner is on the hunt for better food supplies, but I somehow doubt we'll be able to get those here."

"Hmm, we probably _could_, but I wouldn't recommend it. Omega's not exactly known for its fresh produce." Garrus's omni-tool pings as Taylor sends the supply list over to him. He studies it for a minute, mapping out a sensible route in his mind for procuring the items in question, and figuring out who to message to try and set up an exchange, and determining what they'll be willing to give up in return. The activity sends a ripple of discord up his spine; the memory of settling down to tackle the same sort of task with Sidonis, on occasions too numerous to count, crisp and clear in his mind.

"There's a salvage stall down in the marketplace where we should be able to find the couplings. Might even have a few of the items I'm after at that one, but most of what's on this list won't be so easy to come by."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that ninety percent of the supply chain on Omega is below board. We're not going to get it by stopping at a kiosk."

"What do you suggest?"

Garrus rotates his neck back and forth, attempting to relieve some of the tension that being back on Omega is causing to multiply within his system. "I have a few contacts. Well, I used to. Hard to say how many of them are still alive, let alone still on the station." He types out a short inquiry on his omni-tool, and sends it scuttling out to the comm addresses he thinks should still be working; former contacts and associates that dwell in the nether regions of the station and are therefore less likely to have been compromised.

He can only hope that at least of some of those who were loyal to him just a few months back remember the favors he's done for them in the past, and are willing to talk business with a ghost. "Let's check out Kenn's Salvage in the meantime; we can pick up those couplings, and I can get a feel for just who's running the supply lines these days. Spirits only know how much things have changed since I last stepped foot on this rock."

With the briefest of nods at his companions for the day, Garrus sets off, doing his best to ignore the way the walls of the station seem to close-in around him as they make their way to the lower levels. Tries to ignore how much like a _tomb_ the whole place feels, with the ghosts of his dead squad flickering at the edges.

He's not even remotely successful.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

To say that Shepard isn't into the club scene at the best of times is an understatement of epic proportions.

And this...this is decidedly _less_ than the best of times.

But damn it, Samara needs her to do this, so she's going to do it. No matter how uncomfortable the situation makes her. She fumbles her way through the club at first; makes small talk, orders a drink, dances. Following Samara's advice as best as she can. Whether or not that includes kicking the shit out of a turian getting too handsy with an asari _after she'd said no_, Shepard can't say for certain. Doesn't stop her from doing it though.

And if the too-brief-scuffle eases some of the ever-present tension she's been living with for the past few weeks, well Shepard's just going to chose to not think about that right now. Or ever if she can help it.

Morinth takes the initiative and introduces herself after that though, so Shepard figures she must have been doing _something_ right. Considering how long Samara has been hunting Morinth, it's mind-bogglingly easy to get an invite back to Morinth's home following mere minutes of conversation.

Once ensconced within the walls of Morinth's home, the amount of attention the other woman showers on Shepard, and the false persona she's wearing, is...strangely gratifying. So much intensity - all focused on _her. _If Shepard were anyone else, she thinks she might be flattered.

She can understand why a young, impressionable girl like Nef would be pulled in by it all.

When the moment of truth comes and Morinth is leaning in and whispering words that Shepard _knows _shouldn't be as alluring as they are, she finds that it's a struggle to remember why she's really here. To remember Samara's warning.

'_She will be planning to inflict horrors on you. If you are not careful, you will _want_ her to.'_

For seconds that stretch into eons that meld back into the barest flicker of time, Shepard is caught in the fathomless pools of Morinth's dark gaze. And the pull, the _want_ to give in to her siren call is all-consuming.

There is something so enticing, so inviting, about the thought of releasing control to the Ardat-Yakshi. About giving all of herself - handing off her burdens, her worries, her _fears _\- to someone else.

About just...letting go.

The proffered reward is a promise that she feels settle down deeper, and deeper in her bones with each moment that she remains trapped by Morinth's will, until she's not certain where she ends, and Morinth begins.

Until she doesn't even careto know the difference. She's falling, falling...slipping away...

It's the sound of shattering glass that shakes Shepard's will loose enough from Morinth's to observe what is happening around her. By then, Samara and Morinth are speaking, noises that barely gel together into words within Shepard's cloudy mind. Each of them entreating Shepard for help. And Shepard - stomach rolling back and forth like a stormy sea - Shepard makes a choice, and the loser ends up dead.

She's on her hands and knees dry-heaving in a corner when she fully comes back to herself.

"Shepard, do you need assistance?"

"I'm fine." The words taste as acidic as the bile coating her mouth and tongue; the urge to choke on them strong. The whole situation made even worse by the voice in the back of her mind growing steadily louder shouting _liarliarLIAR_. She tries not to pay it any mind; instead she levels a look at the Justicar that could not possibly be interpreted as anything other than _back off_. "Just give me a minute."

It's absurd, she knows. Samara just killed her own _daughter_, after hunting her for centuries, and here she is, asking after Shepard's welfare. How the hell did Shepard let herself become so weak?

Hot anger blossoms in her stomach, filling the pit so recently vacated, and with a growl she grasps hold of the edge of the potted plant she is kneeling beside, and forces herself to rise until she is vertical once more. She hocks up some saliva, swirls it around in her mouth, and spits it out into the plant as a stop-gap until she can do a proper rinse; wiping the bit that dribbles down her chin with the back of her hand.

She turns back to Samara - uncertain what sort of platitudes to offer in this sort of a situation - when she's saved the trouble via her omni-tool flaring to life, blinking out an urgent message from the Normandy.

With a low pitched grumble, she flicks the mute button off, allowing Joker's voice to fill the room. "Commander, we've got a bit of a situation."

Shepard barks out a brittle sort of laugh. _Of course _they've got a situation. That's the story of her life in a nutshell. She runs a rough tongue over her lips, catching the sharp tang of bile on the tip. "What now, Joker?"

"The Shopping Contingent ran into some trouble down in the Zeta District. Whoever's taken over the local 'Mercs-R-Us' must be running a two-for-one special on cannon fodder, because the place is flooded with the bastards. They're requesting backup."

Shepard feels the vein in her forehead throb out a plea for mercy, and makes a silent vow to raid Chakwas' med supplies later. And possibly her brandy stores as well.

"We can be there in ten. Just need to get the hell out of this dress and back into some proper armor. Can they hold out that long?"

"Should be fine. Garrus routed them into a former blockade area he use to use, it's helping to funnel them down. Handy having Omega's very own nemesis on the squad, huh?"

Shepard doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. "Right. Any idea what started it this time?"

"You mean beyond Omega being populated by trigger happy nutjobs?"

"Yeah - beyond that."

"Whelp, from what I could make out over the comm in between the random bursts of gunfire and screaming - our Merry Men pulled a Robin Hood. And the local Sheriff's _pissed_."

The corners of Shepard's mouth pull into an involuntary smile. "Understood. Let 'em know we're en route, Joker. Shepard out." Shepard turns towards the exit, prepared to rush back to the club to retrieve her kit from where it's been stashed, but the sight of Morinth's dead body laying sprawled out in a pile of shattered glass upon the floor brings her up short. She frowns, and turns to Samara, prepared to offer her sympathy in the only way she can at the moment. "Samara, if you're not up to this right now, if you need to talk, or...I can have Joker send someone else -"

"Shepard, I just killed the bravest, and smartest of my daughters. There are no words that can describe what that feels like. I will...need time." Samara breaks eye-contact, turning away from Shepard and swallowing down a breath of air. Looking more rattled than Shepard has ever seen her before. But it lasts no more than a moment. Then Shepard watches as Samara's back straightens, and she forces herself to raise her chin once more; mouth in a thin, determined line.

"For now, I would rather not dwell on what has happened, but focus on the tasks that still lie ahead. Let us leave this place, and offer our assistance down in the Zeta District. I am eager for the distraction."

Shepard feels like a shit of a human being for being grateful that the Justicar didn't want to have a heart-to-heart, but she's grateful all the same. How the hell could she be any help anyway, when she can barely keep her own emotions in check these days? "I get that. Come on, then. Best get our asses down there before they manage to get themselves into even more trouble."

"I am at your service, Shepard." Samara doesn't smile, but it's close enough that Shepard's concerns are eased a fraction.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

"I thought you said these guys were trustworthy, Vakarian?!" Taylor's frustrated shout over the comm is muffled by the echo of a merc screaming as he is yanked off his feet. Garrus shifts his sights twelve degrees east, adjusts the scope, and pulls the trigger. Two-hundred and thirty meters away, the merc falls to the ground.

"This is Omega. Trustworthy is relative."

"Hah! That's putting it mildly."

In the time that it takes Garrus to shuffle out the spent cartridge in his gun for a fresh one, another merc drops. Only this one falls forty paces from Garrus' perch. A flash of metal ducking beneath the upper catwalk gives away Krios' position, and his help in keeping Garrus' head still attached to his shoulders. Garrus doesn't know how well Krios can see him, but he offers a nod in thanks regardless.

Garrus pops back up again, taking aim at a merc that's closing in on Taylor's position, just in time to see another fly up into the air and hurtle backwards from a slug to the chest.

"Remind me again how a shopping mission escalated to us being attacked by three dozen mercenaries?" The sound of another shot being fired echoes over the comm. "And counting?"

Figuring the question's rhetorical, Garrus doesn't bother to respond, instead choosing to focus on his target. To his surprise, Krios answers. "I believe that the battle we're currently engaged in was in direct response to taking opposition with the manner in which said mercenaries were _taxing _the local shopkeepers." Garrus can't help the slight twitch of amusement that flitters over his face at the drell's simplified recounting of events; or the way another merc goes down from an unseen round shot from the catwalk at the same time.

The drell's good.

"Ahh, right. Now remind me again why the hell we were even _assigned_ shopping duty to begin with? Huh, Garrus?"

"Hey now, don't blame that one on me. I just did the inventory, it's not my fault that Cerberus has no idea how to stock a ship." Garrus takes the target down, and stoops to reload. The action so ingrained, that it's almost meditative. To the point that the joking back-and-forth that so often goes hand-in-hand with a fight rolls off his tongue without thought. "The damn thing had _polonium_ rounds on it. Maybe if the _armory officer_ was paying attention before launch- "

"Oh, I see how it is. Blame the guy who was on the ship when it launched-"

"Nah, just blaming the guy that was in charge of the ammunition. You wouldn't happen to know who that is, would you Taylor?" Five degrees south, aim, fire. One more down. Only two dozen more - give or take - to go.

Whatever quip Taylor readies next is lost on Garrus, as, once again, Shepard appears like the avenging angel the people of Omega so often claimed Garrus had been. Rocketing into his crosshairs, a blur of red and silver making a mad dash from one merc to the next. The poor fools never even see her coming. His view goes blurry, and it takes him longer than it should for him to realize that it's because his hands have started to shake.

He pulls back from the ledge for one heartbeat - two - so that he can get his breathing under control enough to steady his aim. As he lifts the gun again, her voice booms over the comm in his ear.

"Heard you guys could use a hand?"

"'Bout time you got here, Shepard."

"Aww, sorry I took so long, Jacob. My mistake for thinking you could handle picking up _supplies _without me_._"

Without even trying, Garrus finds her in his scope again, doing a tuck and roll behind a column; gun at the ready. Not ten steps behind her he catches sight of Samara, tossing a merc that dared to get too close, without her ever even having to touch him.

The fight moves in double-time after that; Krios and him providing long-range support for the rest of the crew down on the lower level. What was a doable, but daunting task a few moments ago, is suddenly child's play. The rush of it floods him, narrowing his focus to the enemies within his scope. The rhythm of the fight is familiar. Normal. He almost feels..._good. _

Down below, a merc must manage to get past their defenses, because the next time he swipes his scope past Shepard and the others, Shepard is helping Taylor up off the ground. Somehow completely oblivious to the enemy coming at her from the rear.

There's no thought. No split-second of hesitation. He doesn't even need to focus. He just takes the shot. And the merc falls dead a half-step behind her.

With the merc down, the hall goes quiet. The singular sound of a battle past. The readings from Garrus' visor confirm as much.

Shepard looks up at him, her face clear as day through the scope, though he knows he must be a smudge to her at best. "Nice shot, Vakarian."

Something warm and light bubbles up inside his chest at the statement. A set of simple words he hadn't even known he'd given up for dead, buoying him up.

"Now get down here. You too, Thane. You three have some explaining to do."

He doubts he's ever scurried so fast before in all his life.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

The Port Observatory is quiet. The space is sparsely furnished, only a desk to the left of the door, and a couple of chairs. A blank spot along the far wall still looks perfect for that bar that Jacob and her have discussed installing on board, but never actually done anything about. The warm burn of a decent bourbon is something she could use right now. She makes a mental note to add a selection of liquor to the list of rations to be purchased at their next docking point. (_Not_ Omega.)

She's spent too much time sober lately.

But, the lack of alcohol in her system allows her a chance to observe the stars as they skitter on by the observational window. The sight, along with the lack of foot traffic, makes this the perfect location for her to take some downtime. Doesn't hurt that it's pretty much the only corner of the ship as yet unoccupied by crew or squad.

She's been deftly (if she says so herself) avoiding the common areas of the ship, while still managing to make her presence felt by the crew. It hasn't been easy – but she knows that _he_ has to venture out of the main battery eventually and she'd rather not be in the mess when he decides to do so.

It's been difficult enough dealing with Mordin's curious gaze, and Jack's all-too-knowing looks. She's studiously avoided direct eye-contact with Chakwas for over a week now. And she's not sure how much more she can take before she cracks.

She imagines that the fallout from that would be something that even Cerberus wouldn't have the creds to fix.

The silence that envelops her here, the room well insulated from the overall drone of the ship, combined with the view of inky black on black that stretches out forever in all directions, interrupted by only pinpricks of light, is a comfort in a way that it probably shouldn't be. Not for someone who remembers the slow tumble of being spaced. The sight should invoke fear, anxiety, nausea. But those physical reactions have been co-opted by an entirely different memory. A memory whose edges haven't been dulled by the harsh blade of death.

It's funny how that works. Even more funny is how it soothes her instead.

And right now? She needs that. Needs this momentary solitude in the wake of the emotional upheaval that was Omega. Dealing with the aftermath of Morinth, and her own near suicidal dive into the other woman's clutches; straight into the utter bizarreness that was the gunfight down in the Zeta Distract. Utterly bizarre in just how _normal _the whole thing was. How easy it was to follow the usual fight patterns. Duck and dodge and fire and banter.

Rinse, repeat.

She'd had a taste of that, back on the Flotilla, with Tali and Thane. But this was different. This was so very different. Because it was _Garrus_ that had her back.

And it was _Garrus _that saved her life. Not like that was a first, but it was the first time since…

It had almost felt like old times. And that scares the ever-loving shit out of her.

The shower she'd taken after returning to the ship had pushed the boundaries of the ship's safety limits._ Again_. Her skin's still raw.

But, for whatever reason, the rawness helps. She really doesn't give two shits _why_, she just cares that it _does_.

The door behind her hisses open, but doesn't close. The vibrant yellow light from the hall spills over the threshold, bathing her feet in jagged shadows, but she doesn't turn to face the intruder. Holding onto her false sense of sanctuary for as long as she can. If they want to interrupt her, then they can damn well do it themselves, she's not going to make it easier on them by acknowledging them first.

There is a heavy shuffling sound from behind her, but the sound of the door hissing shut never comes. Instead, the shadows by her feet dance to and fro, a mockery of life against the floor. The intruder seeming content to wait her out in an open door. Either that, or at least attempting to pretend to have some respect for her little oasis. A minute passes, then two, followed by one more, and Shepard feels her calm start to slip away like water through a cracked glass. Her hands curl in upon themselves, the anticipation grating on her nerves until she is ready to scream. Then the silence is shattered.

"Shepard, got a moment?"

A chill skitters up her spine at the sound of his voice. A voice she recently associated with budding attraction, to kinship forged in fire. Now it makes her want to tear chunks out of the nearest available surface, and release a building scream. She settles for clenching her fingers around her sidearm. Angry at herself for not having known it was him standing in the doorway behind her, when she has sworn to herself to never allow him such a position again. And angry at him for everything else.

So very, _very_ angry.

"No, I don't."

She can hear the heavy intake of breath indicative of him gearing up to speak, but no words come. Instead he releases the air in a sigh, the sound so hollow as to almost be a shudder. The weight of it carrying as much meaning to her as any statement ever could. But she doesn't care, and he doesn't speak.

And he doesn't leave.

_Why the hell doesn't he leave? _

It's a question that has plagued her for some time. Why doesn't he go? When she'd sent him onto Omega she'd more than half been hoping he would take up her unspoken offer and _stay there. _But then the firefight happened...and he came back. He always comes back. Why?

And why hasn't she done anything about it yet?

Of course, she knows the answer to that question. Has rolled it around inside her brain a thousand times trying to prove it wrong. Trying to find some way to justify the alternative. To be able to justify making port at a backwater station and leaving him to rot. To rid herself of this man who was once one of her closest allies, one of her best friends; someone she once thought might be more.

Hell, in her darker, more desperate moments, she's visualized a much less civilized method of booting him from her ship, one that involved him gaining first-hand experience of what it's like to be spaced.

But damn it all, she's too much of a marine for any of that. So no matter how much she may want to, no matter how much she might wish she could, she knows that she can't. The mission doesn't allow her that luxury.

Doesn't mean she needs to spend any time in his presence outside of a firefight. "Did you not hear me, Vakarian? Why are you still here?"

"I-" His statement falters, and she hears his armor scrap against itself as he shifts position, finding his voice once again. "I thought - hoped - that we could talk."

"That's nice." The bitterness she feels at his intrusion on her peace is so close to the surface that rather than masking it, she feeds it, making sure it drips like oil off every syllable. "We don't always get what we want." A sound like a diseased laugh passes her lips. "But while we're on that subject, I don't just mean why are you still standing in the doorway pestering me, why are you still _here,_ on _my _ship?"

When silence is her only immediate answer, she allows her anger to propel her into motion, swiveling around on her heel and pinning her eyes to his, any semblance of calm she had felt before his arrival washing away with the motion and the sight of him. The iron-clad grip on her self-control slips, and her voice is thick in her throat as she spits the words that have been clawing at her for weeks, desperate for life and no longer willing to be held back. "You _raped me,_ Garrus."

She hadn't meant for it to burst from her like that, hadn't meant to air the truth of it all so plainly. She hasn't even really allowed the words to form inside her mind. She has, in fact, done her damnedest to avoid thinking about what happened in anything but the most abstract of ways. But now that they have wrestled life from her lungs, she is grateful. Nauseous and angry and a little frightened, but grateful to have thrown the words at him; to smack him with this reality that she has been left stumbling through.

She watches his whole body, back-lit in the lighting from the hall as it is, tense up. Mandibles flaring out wide, his mouth partially opened on a word or a breath, she doesn't know. Two beats of her overtaxed heart pass when his head droops, his whole stance loosening until he sags against the junction of the door. The downward angle muffling his subharmonics until they are but a whisper. "I know."

The quiet admission is a punch to the gut. In the recesses of Shepard's mind, where she had subconsciously played out this confrontation at length, having him own up to his actions so easily was never a scenario that she had entertained. It leaves her feeling unbalanced. A sensation she can't be rid of fast enough. She lashes out, rage propelling her forward a step, and her hand wrapping around the gun now perpetually strapped to her hip.

"You - _then why_ \- there's not some magical fix that's going to make that alright. It's never going to _be_ alright." She shuffles a hand through her hair to hide the shaking, the motion failing to alleviate her tension. Despite the fact that he is on the other side of the room, he's still too close for her peace of mind. It makes her skin itch, and her blood race. Fight or flight, her body wants her to make a choice and stick with it, but instead, she stays planted. Her feet magnetized to the deck as much by willpower as the artificial gravity. "So why are you still here?" It surprises her how much she genuinely wants to know, because try as she might, she can't figure it out.

His head stays bowed, eyes cast downwards for several lingering moments, each of which pulls the knot of tension in her gut ever tighter. "I'm not after forgiveness, Shepard, that's not...There's nothing I can say that is going to change what I did. There's no way for me to be forgiven." He glances up, electric blue focusing on her out of a face that she knows so well, even if he seems so much like a stranger to her now. "I'm still here because what happens to me isn't my call. It's yours."

"Excuse me?"

And some of that life that she has always associated with Garrus Vakarian filters back into his voice. A strength of conviction that she had at one point greatly admired, and which had always made him a valuable ally. She despises it now. "That's why I'm still here, Shepard."

"What the hell are you talking about, Vakarian?"

"You don't trust me. _I_ don't trust me. Not after...So why- I deserve whatever punishment you deem fit. I expected- I _want _that punishment. You're my Commanding Officer, but you're also my - well you were - oh who am I kidding, you still _are _my...my best friend. And I know that I'm not yours - or anything close. Not anymore. Hell, I don't deserve to breathe the same air as you now. But that doesn't change the fact that you're the best friend I've ever had and I...what I did was reprehensible, Shepard. I know that. _I know it._" The vitriol, the utter hatred in those words, in his tone - all self-directed - is so thick that she thinks he might choke. And all she can think is: _Good. _"I know it..." His eyes close, and his head drops away again, his body still slumped against the door jam.

"I could tell you that I'm sorry. Sorrier than I've ever been for anything in my life. And I am. I am…" Shepard tries to ignore the way his voice cracks, and how he has to clear his throat before continuing. _Tries_. "But what the hell good would it do? There's no way for me to apologize. There aren't enough words in any language to express how wrong- how awful, _loathsome_...And even if there were, I'd probably just butcher them trying to, to explain...But there isn't any way to explain - not when _I_ don't even understand..."

The sound of a door whooshing open down the hall startles them both. It's only a crewman heading from his quarters to the bathroom, but it's an obvious reminder that this conversation is too personal to be had in an open doorway. Shepard sees Garrus hesitate, clearly waiting on her signal. If she says so now, he'll leave. He'll leave and take this ugly conversation with its hideous truths with him and maybe then she'll never have to confront him - or it - again.

But the thought of doing that, of burying it all down until it either explodes - contents under pressure - or until it drags her down her with it, makes her stomach turn. Decision made she tightens the grip on her gun, leaving it in its holster. For now. "Step inside, Vakarian. I don't need the whole crew overhearing this."

She can tell that the command catches him off guard, but he nods and steps forward. "Of course, Commander." His words are overlaid by the slide of the door, punctuated by a final hiss as it shuts them in the room together. Though he makes no move towards her, the grip on her gun tightens, an outward reflection of the quickening pace of her blood. Heart to limbs to head, and back again.

Shepard waits for him to pick up the discussion where he left off, doing her best to ignore how pale his facial markings have become - the need for a touch up clear. She tells the twinge in her chest at the observation to settle down. There is no room within her to feel concern for the stranger wearing the face of her former friend. She takes it upon herself to end the crushing silence when he refuses to speak. "What would happen to you? On Palaven?"

He doesn't hesitate, though his voice is rough when he says the words. Like he's been thinking on them for a while, rolling them over on his tongue, until it's all dried out and it hurts to speak. "Stripped of colony markings, chemically castrated and imprisoned, though less financially stable colonies favor exile. That's the expected punishment. Execution if the crime was against a child or if it occurred multiple times prior to the perpetrator being brought to justice. It's...this is...not a common occurrence."

"And is that what you want? To have your colony markings removed? To be castrated and shipped off to a prison?"

For the first time since he entered her space, her little sanctuary, he sounds almost like the friend that she once thought he was; certainty pouring out of his eyes when they lock on hers. "It's what I deserve."

The air shuffles out of her lungs, leaving her feeling spent and weary. She glances back towards the viewing window, careful not to turn her back to the man standing twelve paces in front of her. Everything she knows about turian body language - a great deal of it learned from him - tells her that this man is damaged. In pain. _Broken_.

He reminds her so much of Sidonis in that moment, it's uncanny.

And there it is, isn't? The reason he's leaving his fate up to her? The reason he didn't run from her the way that Sidonis ran from him, but instead came crawling back to make her life as uncomfortable as it could be? Sidonis was a coward, Garrus isn't. She might not be sure of much anymore, but she's sure of that.

He's not seeking absolution, he's looking for penance. His mistake is in thinking that she's going to be the one to impose it on him. "I have no idea who you are anymore, Garrus."

"Neither do I." It's as honest an admission as she's ever heard from him. For once, she wishes he would just _lie_. That, she thinks, she could handle. But the honesty - it reminds her too much of the earnest C-Sec officer that she befriended on their hunt for Saren. And that reminder _hurts._ "I don't think I've known for a long time - and I - I don't know how to get back to who I was. I'm not sure that I can."

"And what? You expect me to draw you a map? That's not my problem. Not anymore. You made sure of that."

"I know. But…" He sighs, "I have no idea where to even _start_. And I know that, that it's not fair of me to ask you, but- but my life? It's yoursnow, Shepard."

"Mine, huh?" Garrus doesn't break her gaze, and so she shakes her head to do it herself, a barely-there laugh skittering out. "Well I don't want it. You wanna know why I haven't spaced you? Put a bullet in your head? I've thought about it. Some nights I think of little else." It's true. She's visualized it a hundred times. Imagined the way his head would kick-back, and the bloody blue spatter that would stain the deck. Minus the feeling of horror that the same scene doused in red conjures, it always comes across to her like some comical misinterpretation of death you'd see in a children's cartoon.

The visual takes up a large part of the real estate inside her mind when she can think of him at all. But then - near as often - her brain conjures up an insta-replay of quiet evenings spent looking over gun schematics, or talking strategy. Of her introducing him to chess, and him trying to convert her to his hideous taste in music. She recalls, with utmost clarity the sense of relief that she felt upon first finding him on Omega; and the abject fear she felt when she saw him wiped out by that gunship.

Remembers how very _not _comical the color of his blood was then, as it spilled from his broken skull and seeped into the joints of her suit as she waited by his side for help, telling him that everything was going to be fine.

Why the _fuck _wasn't everything fine?!

She squashes down the shiver her meandering thoughts cause, and tries to focus on the here and now. She can't afford to be distracted. To _keep_ being distracted.

"This mission is too important for me to squander resources...even if I...It doesn't matter what I _feel_." The grip on her gun tightens until she can feel the cool metal and warm composite dig into her flesh. She has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep the tumult of _feelings_ from overtaking her completely. She's had enough of those to last her a dozen lifetimes. "We need the best if we're going to have even a snowball's chance in hell of pulling out of this thing alive. And the fact is that you're the best sniper I've ever seen, and a damn fine tactician. And I can't just throw a resource like _that_ out an airlock. Doesn't matter if I trust you or not."

Garrus' undamaged mandible flares out, in time with the slide of his shoulders back as he stands just a tad straighter. "But if you can't trust me-"

"I believe that you'll do your job. That's all I need to know. What happened on Omega proves as much." She scratches at her scalp with her free hand; nails that she's chewed down to ragged nubs getting snagged in her hair. The weight of her gun heavy by her side in her other hand. "Now's not the time for me to start being picky about who the hell's riding my ship. It doesn't matter how I feel about you _personally_. So long as you're taking down Collectors, you'll remain on board. But Vakarian?"

It's odd, the way that Garrus manages to slump while simultaneously standing straighter. An exhausted soldier waiting for a command. She'd have found it endearing once. (She tamps down on the part of her psyche that still does. There's no more room for that here.)

"Yes, Commander?"

"If a miracle happens, and our asses manage to survive this mission? You're off the ship at the first port. What you do with yourself after that is none of my concern. Is that understood?"

"Yes. Commander."

"Good. Dismissed."

Shepard has no real expectation of her order being obeyed. And for a moment, when Garrus' mouth opens and shuts with a click, she anticipates him declaring the conversation not over. Anticipates him_ sticking _around, and _talking _some more, and the assumption makes the hairs on her neck stand on end. She's feeling frayed at the edges, and isn't certain she can take much more without screaming.

But luckily, he doesn't do what she anticipates (when does he ever anymore?) instead he gives her a perfunctory nod; his eyes flicking back towards hers, lingering for a moment, before he ducks back out of the room without another word.

Shepard exhales a long, ragged breath the second the door shuts behind him; hands shaking, she slides her weapon back into its holster. She has no clue when she even slipped it out...

"EDI?"

The blue orb immediately flares to life at its stand. Shepard's not sure if it's her imagination or not, but it seems to...hesitate before speaking. "Yes, Commander?"

"I want you to delete all records of the conversation that just took place between Officer Vakarian and myself. And I mean ALL records. Including backup copies and any backups of **those **backups that you or the Illusive man, or **whoever **makes. Then I want you to wipe this conversation between the two of us as well. And I want it done immediately. Is that understood?"

This time, Shepard is certain that the orb flickers and pauses before responding. "Certainly, Commander. Deleting records, and all associated redundancy files, now."

Shepard counts off two dozen beats of her heart via the clench and release of her fists before she asks, "Is it done?"

"Please clarify as to what action you are speaking of, Commander."

"Nothing. Thanks, EDI."

~~~\/~~~

Shepard's never understood why Jack chooses to sequester herself in the dreary, overheated sublevels of engineering when there is a perfectly serviceable private bunk available to her on the crew deck, but as she waits for Jack's return, she thinks she finally gets it. There is something so...comforting about this space.

The gentle throb of the ship's engines, the warmth from the core draining the tension from her limbs whether she wants it to or not (she does), and the dim lighting all work to put Shepard at ease. Regardless of Jack's less than inviting welcome when she returns from wherever she's been and discovers Shepard perched on the edge of her cot.

"What the fuck are you doing down here?"

"Nice to see you too, Jack."

Jack stomps over to the table, the sound of heavy booted feet reverberating in the small space, and tosses a datapad down onto a haphazard stack already decorating the surface. "You come down here for a reason, or you just like invading other people's space?"

"Last I checked this was my ship, Jack. Pretty much gives me license to go where I want."

"Figures. Bad enough Cerberus has every inch of this placed wired up. Now I can't even get the illusion of privacy? You're on their payroll after all, don't know why I expected any better."

Shepard cringes, the point too valid to ignore. "You're right, Jack." She pushes herself up off the cot, and moves to exit the small room, feeling justifiably chastised. "I should go." She makes it as far as the space that Jack occupies, feet spread wide and arms crossed over her chest, before the other woman responds.

Jack stands stationary, blocking her path, and eyes her up from head to toe. "You done trying to get everyone to swallow down all the bullshit you keep spewing?"

Shepard lifts one side of her mouth up in a pathetic excuse for a smile. "Not everyone."

Jack sneers at Shepard, shouldering past her. "Well don't I feel special. But I'm not really the touchy-feely type, Shepard. You should know that by now."

"Hell, Jack, why do you think I'm here?" Shepard spreads her arms out, gesturing to the room at large, before letting them flop down against her sides.

Jack snorts, a fleeting smile touching the corners of her mouth. "Would you look at that, the great Commander Shepard, slumming it with the locals for the hell of it. Wonders never cease."

Jack drops onto the grating by her cot, and slides a box out from it's hiding space beneath the bed. The sound of glass clinking together is followed by the sight of several long-necked bottles each with a different shade of liquid sloshing around inside. "I'm planning on getting shit-faced. If you're sticking around, you are too." Jack selects one of the bottles and thrusts it out into the air towards Shepard. The label is written in what looks like asari, but the lettering is too smudged and stained to be legible. "In or out, Shepard."

Shepard lifts an eyebrow, but doesn't argue, instead she crosses back to the cot, and grabs the bottle by the neck before setting herself on the edge. Jack selects her own bottle - a dark amber one - and pushes the box back towards where it came from, though still within reach. She choses to sit on the floor, her back propped against the cot, rather than joining Shepard on the bed. Shepard's not sure whether to be insulted or grateful.

Shepard settles on the comfortable space in between, and pops the cap off her drink. The scent that assails her nose is fruity without being cloying. A quick swallow reveals a taste that is similar, but with just a slightly bitter undertone and a subtle effervescent quality that leaves a pleasant aftertaste. "Not bad."

"Damn straight it's not bad. That shit you're drinking's worth 1700 creds."

Shepard chokes on her next sip. Only years of training at scarfing down slop keeps her from spitting it back out. "Shit, Jack. You should have said something!"

"Yeah, well, don't say I never gave you nothin'. Sides, it's not like I **paid **for it or anything."

Shepard snorts, and takes another drink. Letting the bubbly liquid and the warm hum of the engines lull her into a state that is as close to relaxed as she call recall being in months. Since before she woke up not dead. Which is of course why she decides to shatter the companionable silence they're sharing. Shepard never could leave good enough alone.

"...Did it help? Blowing up Pragia?"

A burst of manic laughter echoes off the bulkheads, for several long, seconds. Jack's mirthful face locks on Shepard. "You're serious? Fuck, yeah, it helped! Best fucking thing I've ever done."

"Really?"

Jack's eyes scan across Shepard's face. Shepard has no idea what it is she's looking for, but figures she must find it as the side of Jack's mouth pulls downward and she gives a one-shouldered shrug, throwing back the remains of her drink. "I don't know. A little. Felt good at first, seeing it all up in smoke."

Shepard plucks at the label on her bottle, little wet bits of it coming off and getting stuck to her fingertips. "But, it didn't last."

"No." Jack reaches behind her blindly, snagging another bottle by the neck, and pops the top of it off with her teeth.

"So, then why-"

"Fuck, Shepard. I'm not your goddamn therapist."

"Jack, if I wanted a therapist, I'd be sitting in the mess with Chambers instead of hiding down here with you."

"Glad to know I rank above the mini-cheerleader in terms of companions."

"Yeah, well, your drinks are better."

Silence settles over them again, heavier this time, as the make their way towards the bottom of their bottles. Oddly enough, it's Jack that breaches the quiet next.

"It's like - Look, whatever went down, whatever _happened_, ain't no one gonna be able to help you figure out how to get past it but YOU. Now me? I needed to run amok through the galaxy for a decade, get myself caught, beaten, WORSE, tossed into cryo, sprung by a space marine with a holier than thou attitude and an unwillingness to accept FUBAR as an excuse, only to finally return to the shithole where it all began and watch the place burn before I could even **start **to figure out what the word 'closure' meant. And I'm still not all that fucking sure I've got a handle on it.

"All I know, is that once you **do** work out what you need to do, don't let anyone tell you different. Because fuck that, and fuck _them_ if they think they know what's best for you better than you do. You're the only one inside your head, and you're the only one that's gotta keep livin' inside your skin. You just do what you gotta do to get you through one night and then the next so that you don't have to keep scrubbing your flesh raw just to feel clean.

"And when you got all that figured out, do me a favor and let me know how the fuck you managed it, cause I'm sure as shit not all the way there yet."

Shepard blinks in rapid succession, her bottle caught in midair on its way to being emptied. What Jack's said is all so fucking logical, that it shouldn't be some big revelation for Shepard. But to hear someone else say it? To have it all layed out like that? It...it _helps. _And Shepard feels strangely _lighter _for it having been spoken. And this time, her gratitude doesn't feel shameful, or self-serving, but entirely genuine.

"Thanks, Jack."

"Whatever. You let me know if there's anything you need to blow up though, yeah? 'Cause it may not last, but it's sure as shit is fuckin' fun while it does."

"Knowing my luck, Jack, there's probably a half-dozen things that are gonna get blown sky-high before this mission is over. But I'll make certain you've got a front seat."

Jack swivels her head so that she's staring down Shepard from her position on the floor. Which is an impressive feat in and of itself. "I thought you said you'd cut the bullshit."

"Jack-"

"Look - I got no interest in making you talk about shit you don't wanna talk about yet, but don't play that fucking game like we both don't know what I meant, or you can walk your ass right on outta here."

"Sorry."

"Don't fuckin; apologize, just don't fuckin' do it."

"How about I just promise to try, and we call it even?"

It's only a lifetime of experience combined with extensive military training that keeps Shepard from squirming at the assessing look that Jack gives her. "Fine. And, Shepard? You repeat this conversation, to **anyone**, and I will eviscerate you."

"Wouldn't expect any less, Jack."

"Just so we're clear."

"Crystal." Shepard lifts her bottle in a mock toast, before draining the remains. The dregs at the bottom sharper than the rest.

There's a world of pain, of hurt - a near insurmountable chasm of betrayal - that Shepard still needs to cross. She's got a mission to complete, a galaxy to save, and somewhere in there she needs to figure out a way to put the scattered pieces of herself all back together if she's gonna have a hope in hell of coming out the other side.

She looks back towards Jack - at the roadmap of experience inked into her skin - and she knows, that whatever happens, she's not going to be the same person when all is said and done. But that's okay. She's been resurrected before, doing it again should be a piece of cake by comparison.

And maybe this time it won't take a known terrorist organization a billion plus creds to accomplish. Though Shepard's not opposed to draining them of all they're worth in the interim.

It's the little things in life, after all.

Shepard reaches down, grabs another bottle from the bin, and twists the top; catching Jack's eye as she takes a swig. The laugh from the other woman as Shepard sputters at the sour taste, a bright spot in the dimly lit room.

Shepard may not have found the way yet, but maybe she doesn't have to go it alone.

And hell, that's a start.

~ End.


End file.
